Porcelain silver landscape, stoic castles, and a wooden box.

May roses follow wherever I tread.

Cemetary, a maze of Gaelic twisted spires, metal belfries, bushes, and sunflowers of razor blades.

Massive cylinders of granite so deathly white the day needs not a sun. Pillars impaling the earth, scraping across the dirt with earth marbling up their sides.

Acres of gravestone planted grey and twirling, field of belfries and steeples protruding from the ground.

Ceramic building on fire, no ceiling or walls to tell of.

Meadow, hundreds of metal crosses in place of grass, grey as the stone trees. Roses, a trail of red, to the last patch of dirt.

The only path a trail of roses from where you have been crawling, the eyes that glisten now that you have passed them, Siphoning my flesh through spires of granite shoved through your flesh so you could continue crawling, beads of blood across the cuts on your body, hands missing fingers, still firmly crawling, the little left of you to actually be buried at the end you've finally reached.