Stone Tree Sketch
The edge of this place is marked by bones.
White under the fading light, they make a boundary of absence.
A tree, branches hanging low with red and yellow apples, stands at the far end of the chasm.
The ledges all around it have long since crumbled.
Now, the tree holds the remaining ground in place,
Working hard to keep itself from listing forward into the hole.
At the bottom, among jagged rocks, tires and burnt couches,
Pages from decimated libraries scuttle with the wind.
The whisper of rustling paper, the voice of ghosts echoing up and out.
In the center of the void on a prominent rock, a doll is smoldering.
Her hair on fire, an orange cloud of melting plastic.