The Rotting Land of Red

In the rotting land of Red, where mountains bleed away in the wind, there is nothing. The earth is salt and clay, and all is dead. Except for a being that has gone past life.

With nothing but untold time, without life or words, in constant decay, unending. The night would freeze and the sun would burn, yet still, the being would not come to pass, in the Rotting Land of Red.

For untold ages, he walked the land, mind and body gone with the wind. Past the point of life or death, until neither was real, with no memory of either.

All the Being had was knowing, of his sole existence and eternity; the only thing, in the Rotting Land of Red.

With the Knowing alone he was compelled. He filled the land with spiral mounds; a forest of monoliths. Surrounded yet alone, by empty creation.

The Being dare not halt or change direction as he worked, lest he turns and sees them crumble back into the Earth, and bleed away into the sun. All was rotting.

Days unrelenting, doom his only constant. Still the only thing, in the Rotting Land of Red.

Days untold, before the after. Still the only one, in the Rotting Land of Red.

Yet one day, on a salt plain, he found a Tree. Black and dead and all alone. Black from the burning sun.

His work halted and the cycle broke. Now not the only thing, in the Rotting Land of Red.

The being begged and yearned for a forward path, to grow or bloom or burn. With nothing to do, they stood and waited, together, unchanging, in the Rotting Land of Red.