Within a circling cornice of turban stones a gripping weave lies. Machinations in silhouette fall across it, and pin-points glint in the fibre crevices, tasting of cold and bitterness to the eyes.
The snaring interclasping bears a gouge at its heart; from the ragged lips of this gap the silky, fluted sheets of colourless sable funnel down to an unknown approach.
The thin stuff is pinched and pulled from down inside, and it may tear.
What, if not, may pull itself up, and yet be unknown?
#DailyCreatedOOM #WrittenOOM 2023/09/26