Fog from the woodland tomb...

Mist coalesces around the old stones. a dim light flickers in the distance. A wayfaring wander ponders in the grey malice of the wind. Ruminating, will my sunken chambers of eld ever rise, will I unearth this kingdom to mine own solace? For I have been walking for so long, now I am just bones.
 One who has always been bones knows, and through the raspy throat of the wind he spoke thus:
The ruins  need their stars to live. Tis the sun that is cold to me. Exile. Chains that drag the stones that speak. Listen and walk, you have razors as teeth, your words will cut thine tongue. You are bones: they will hold you

Towering ceaselessly, the stellar infinipede

Endless, the climb up the ladder of bone. Hordes of the unmanifest in coitus with the vorticular dragon, who stretches across time.

Through the mulch, writhing. The roots are alive.

Sink deeper into the unknown of our earth. In the catacombs we brood over telluric riddles.