There is a land where no man stands

A waste land.

Understand the carnations and tulips do not spread their wings.

And the crows and the ravens do not sing.

The dark sky above is looming.
Its mere mortal presence is listening
to everything.


Even the dead.


Faces are etched into stone
That
C
  R
      U              

M
         B
L            
E  
                       S
Away.

Sand of stone.

The wind bellows and blows

Sands into the waste lands.

The hallow wind is relapsed across the
valley. Its breeze nurturing a dying blue tulip. Her pedals are worn out and she is chipping away like old paint. The silence is a curious reckoning always calculating and analyzing. The ground is solid and pure, it's body is covered in veins.
I can taste the salt in the river.
I can feel the rapid, ruthless, fluid that flows through the tiny piping system.
I see a man with a flower.
A gun blast can be heard.
His body just lying there, blood every where, watering the roots beneath him, and the flower proped against him as a sick joke told by death.
The valley smells of blood.
It reacts by destroying all evidence of imperfection.
Over time the man's body is swallowed into the earth.
A hundred more pickable flowers grow upon this man. All of them waiting for someone to pick them.