a foul, fermented smell in an earthen tunnel
roots dripping through the walls trace the shapes of presidents and kings
in each eye, a fire-red beetle turns endlessly, searching
but for what?
deeper in, the smell is fainter
melding with the yeast-stench of a thousand loaves - unbaked, occult, hidden
the darkness caresses with ten thousand elfin fingers, palpable
a cliff, an opening,
and below, the sound of rushing water, forgotten machinery, and the moans of the wounded
a step, wrenching wind
a world of billowing red silk
we must find...
but the silk
all is silk
there is nothing but the billows