Yekesdi

Within the crags of the folding ruin where the split clay weeps, a citadel lays dormant. Tile floors lay coated with gathered dust. Dry fountains await rains that never come. A dense orchard sits in silence. Winds stretch the petrified wood releasing a whining chorus. The enclosure surrounded by the rusted crusted bars morphed into scythian curves. Ascending the worn steps where boots have conveyed their depressions, armored gates stand guard.   With locks still bound, a darkness crept inside. The floor stained with faded glass. Lanterns hang still, chain links creeping under their oppressing weight. Arched pathes hide the spiraling stairs that lead to hidden halls. Basking in their splendor, decorated casings bear the emblems of long forgotten houses. Linen remains kept undisturbed, pillows sunken by time. Beds attended by regret and fear, but no one to bear the weight. Barrels ringed with iron bands lay robbed, yet unopened. A library with books opened and pages torn out sits spoiled. Ink pots, sapless, retain their quilled skewers in their parched wells.   A great hall beckons where a long table yearns for company. Chairs pulled from the places. Scratches scour the ground. A deep gash split the sundered floor where the criminal blade stands its stone sheath. Shredding tapestries wait for another setting. Plates and bowls rest shattered about the distant walls. The scarred door gapes at the scene, leading to plated throne. There, the crown split down the center. The arms broken from their refrain.   Eyes peer through the dissicated remains of the lower hold, the expansive city caught in the blight. Shifting steps break through the crusted soil. The air shatters as every breath runs sharp. The shadow awaits.   "There sits Yekesdi, the fallen citadel," an old scroll reads. Tired hands wind the the parchment, a muted lantern severing the shadow. Standing at the gate, one pushes in. Finally, the seal of Yekesdi is broken.