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Indigo spilled through the arid cradle across scabbed lakebeds their life long ago robbed by errant dust devils sniggering back to their grottoes in the barren foothills through seemingly dead hands eternally arthritic arched up, and into the earth-filled wind of creation scouring the impurities from the land past the aeon-old titans clinging to thier final mountainous footholds weary from their trek from the Tide ready to descend into the valley to die with the dawn in every hidden oasis of life every subtle warren and clandestine nest where the small things, with every painful breath prove that existence is worth struggling for and out, under the broken edges of the sky whose shattered glass fell ages ago a septillion points of light ground by the endless cycle back into the loam but where Indigo goes so too goes her keeper mounting the cradle, flooding the valley hidden in their woven coffins, their buried crypts the small things bowed thier heads, and the land fell silent the malevolent sentinel had come monarch of the pit, lord of the ****** soaring to his azure font of judgement culling by flame those creatures found most wanting for this is his domain, it's denizens whisper: fed by the Hell-born river until he dies once more his dirt choked blood spilling into the horizon trickling down the desert's spine followed by the silent chime of stars, and a resurgence of life, waiting for thier own lord to rise it's here you will find him atop the granite seat that breaks the basin floor the man with evergreen eyes having found when facing North the Moon is always at his back
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Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
I'm Going Where The Trees Are Dead
Indigo spilled through the arid cradle across scabbed lakebeds their life long ago robbed by errant dust devils sniggering back to their grottoes in the barren foothills through seemingly dead hands eternally arthritic arched up, and into the earth-filled wind of creation scouring the impurities from the land past the aeon-old titans clinging to thier final mountainous footholds weary from their trek from the Tide ready to descend into the valley to die with the dawn in every hidden oasis of life every subtle warren and clandestine nest where the small things, with every painful breath prove that existence is worth struggling for and out, under the broken edges of the sky whose shattered glass fell ages ago a septillion points of light ground by the endless cycle back into the loam but where Indigo goes so too goes her keeper mounting the cradle, flooding the valley hidden in their woven coffins, their buried crypts the small things bowed thier heads, and the land fell silent the malevolent sentinel had come monarch of the pit, lord of the ****** soaring to his azure font of judgement culling by flame those creatures found most wanting for this is his domain, it's denizens whisper: fed by the Hell-born river until he dies once more his dirt choked blood spilling into the horizon trickling down the desert's spine followed by the silent chime of stars, and a resurgence of life, waiting for thier own lord to rise it's here you will find him atop the granite seat that breaks the basin floor the man with evergreen eyes having found when facing North the Moon is always at his back
6/17/2015 For Tidewalker
PadanFain
Written by
PadanFain
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
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