Such a juxtaposition is this.
Between vibrant rock and stone,
Creatures of death walk silent trails.
Their feet whispering between slices of orange and striations of gold.
Those who worship The Gate at the end of life,
Who embrace the unknown,
With arms of an inhuman design.
And minds connected as one part to a hive.
May you never cross their path,
For there in lies an omen of your end.
Eschew their unholy and unfortunate grounds.