Sleep Or Be Eaten

It's either sleep or be eaten, by the darkest kind've creepin'. Lower, slower reverberation - lower, slower emanations. Chasms of brain, cradling only geodes of detritus; this filth isn't a gain in wealth, it's treacherous.

Bountiful columns that held the ocean become barren badlands; wide, vast valleys, into twisting corridors of looming walls and cliffs of schist and deepest amethyst; with such saturation, no reflection could be held.

Any potential redemption in beauty is dashed, avasted upon abandoned shores and its long-gone ports; in short, in a 'forgetting', of course; a slow crush - the elephant's foot in descent, 'til naught but a faint ochre streak of lemon juice that can hardly render as does its goals, unmet; under a blunder of a sun - a fiery mind focused and regressing while ruminating on regrets; becoming the sun that forgets just how to set.