The Innocent Desolation

Spindle of the Many

Only rock. Rock black as the scars on the sun, white as pearls caught in the jaws of bleached adders, gray as the haunts outside one’s senses. Rock welded to rock, rock coiled into a morass of rock, rock slick with the tears of rock. Rock made feeble by the songs of time. Rock torn from other worlds and rolled struggling along roads paved with flat rock. Rock extruded from cinderworks deep in the earth, worked by molten hands. Rock cloven and melded, rock churned and polished, rock razed and braided. Rock that binds the Spindle around which blows the dry wind.