The cicadas o'erhead burdened cloven footfalls, tulip-soft nettles scraping, thin white chalk whispering its birth along ignorant shaggy tufts. The search was ending. The earthy olive pool expanded outward, all directions burdened as their backs methodically lulled the liquid beast, abscessed mastadons bursting, terra-torn putrescent adagios in relief. The belligerent enchantment, choreographed in blood and air, bone and bile. The pain; the sweet, luscious pain.
Standing on the edge I turned, tipped, fell, facing up into the icy heavens, consumed. Darkness.
I have found another sweet muse from which to learn. I like it.