The trees are thick with tar, dripping from the smoldering breath of the crimson sun. The heat swells with moist humidity. Vapors of hot breath paste to the flesh like glue. While hands embrace feebly to tattered umbrellas to keep refuge from the goo of the lonely trees.
This ugly and forsaken place be the lands of Hollow Graves. An empty place where many lay but walk bare with nothing to say. Their lips crusted of pain, hydration is far from the soul. No rivers flow with water, only the blood of the dead.
The mountains bare no snow, only the flesh of those of womb. The sacrifices of the living, those who took what was not theirs. Snuffing the gift they were bestowed. Searching for a lasting escape from sufferings of the life. Only to find themselves torn with each repeating day.
Their flesh kissed by the mending lips of demons. Only to scream out to repent as the devils sly lips turn sharp. Lacerating the innocent skin, the newborn flesh. Howls of dying men and wo…