the moorlands have a feel not unlike the passing of the shade in the lightless tides timeworn days, infinities of age caravan among the quicksands on your way back down unilluminated, guide you to ruin spires will mark the call vestiges from ghosts that want us gone pillars forming high above you venom's sweetness one with earth, the vines will take you moon beams seek you not to rest among the nightshades and soon to ruin