Dark maroon bleeds from the inky rock— formed of words unsaid— in Spireblack.
The ground is a damp, incomprehensible mush where a manless boot remains.
He can see here. There is no safety for the still and dry of sweat.
Up above in the bleary white miasma from where heaven fell, a flat note echoes the last music.
Seventy-five-point-five percent falls from the cliffs and into its turbulent river.
In a silver pool is the reflection of the immaculate portrait she painted,
as rum soaks into its fibers and dilutes the colors.
A black voice whispers "isn't this better?"
A discomfort settles through the marrow.
A fire ignites on the tongue.
A hushed laughter upon you is the sound of death.