All the grubs underground slither through the mush, like my fist through a slab of bloody meat. The faintest of light will illuminate them on their way to another patch of moss. Roots dig through and form cages filled with hungry termites. Suction moist slim around our outstretched arms. The new palace rises from the sector of eternal dark into a passing season that moves along the galaxy. Spikes across the turrets gleam dully as the sun lets go of the chains holding an enormous, rusted portcullis from the bile-covered bodies of the inhabitant. The stones of balance draw fire from a wheel of water. Upon the rotating stock the unending fray sounded. Like a continent heaving aloft a section of an ocean. Too bad that she didn't hear the sobs that came from inside. Cards of faces flap between the spokes of wheel made of rib bones. They felt the blood once more. It runneth down. The skin of empires past is worn as armor.
