Standing in the doleful rain like a sick farm animal, wilderness of pine cone and reasonable tigers, fatal spiders, Satanic gnats and forgotten, rotten barns. Inky light, the perplexing palsy and carousel of pretty girls, like a battlefield littered with gutted foreign tanks, all burnt and destroyed, the cindering ruins almost beautiful.
Pine Isle, Faulkner's funeral of wagons, painful to look at, the saw-grass and frost morgues, the spreading arms of a Chestnut tree. Everyone gets to see great sorrow, and in that sorrow, you will be happy. Ghastly orchids, don't forget your dying King.
Skeletal frames of an old house, saw a horde of Legionary ants on the march, they stopped by a polished dragon stone near the pond, they looked like they were praying to God. Emblematic prose, my Appalachia of birch and thyme, it is what thy heart doth say, complexion of a rose, the last lion, broken branches, time to shrink from the sight of everyone, roar in the death garden, the paradise that was.