T.P.

The martyrs howled as the moon expatriated the sun; the beige glow removed their sores.
A smeared trail called ahead to the bare sand which yearned for footprints,
Blinded by the blood of its predecessor.
The rays cast a path to the distance to a ridge where a previously-reddened figure gazed upon a valley with thirsty eyes.
The route passed hundreds of idols; the du Ténéré, the pits of despair and the New World, none of which served to warn.
Finally at the ridge the moon vanished, and the sun returned to scorch the skin to a crisp like never before.
The sunlight showed the moon’s glow to be a drunken slur of preposterity, and the valley was vacant,
An abyss darker than the recesses of the mind.
As such the martyrs returned to the pits, to revel as the blood flowed again to blind everyone.