Pitsmouth

 The heap of rocks piled a meter high.
On the flat sandy wasteland.
The weight veins clicking inside and out.
The grey shiny fragments of marble shimmer.

Shimmer as a warning to the oncomer.
A reflection that says turn back.
No hope beyond this point.
One turns back.

Attempts to retrace steps.
The humm in the air 
The miles of vagueness
The only other point on the horizon

Is a cave entrace that is above ground
Its darkness blinking like an eye alive
Staring out across the desolate nothings
Combing for a curious interloper