Espouse that fantastic land, that porous slate through terrible glade. Wisps swim to curl night among ether and silver shale–pale vortexes swept and sullied, inking silken scrawls for rend and rape of dreg and coughing man. Entail, so wroth be the wanderer, of platitude and tale spoken beyond listless temper. Echos or whispers or tide-battered bones slipped to steal unwary souls and filth and empty blood borne of order and contempt.
It is second, the wailing pariah and the bickering saint squinting forever to simply serve meek and humble knives and teeth, erupted gushing from tepid skies. In the darkness and the cold, through the sinister and the bold, felt of pain and silent creeks sent thundering, blundering to hands cruel with promises and misfortune. The unsettled and the mad, face wretched confusion and despair of cascades unexplored within miasmas churning of black and spinning grey. Awakened eyes break eons or millennia, mere seconds aside infinity caught in smoke.
But ruins, raging simulacrum choked or wrenched or caressed or seduced, bare witness or ignorants by ignorance, glowering malevolent tears over age-worn fangs. Instead it is ever grinding, shattered by moans in towen and coven by bidding and summons by damned and lost children. Rifts voracious and insatiable consume and quench substance raw ‘till ether fades; stale remnants glisten poorly, bleached dingy shackles rusting over rotten marrow and eroded dust.
It is reflected, and it is known, in the mirror creation has sown.