He turns the death garland over in gnarled hands.
A wreath of bones, and things resembling bones; fragments of animal, man and machine. Lives, deconstructed.
Debris, become the key to beyond.
He had been bound for millennia; buried with penumbral beasts from the flickering, cave-fire dawn of fear, with the scritching, scratching of fraying claws and too-big teeth in snapping jaws. Then the Earth split and scraps of modern man fell in.
Now he yearns, a yawning ache, for the world without.
He turns his key. The lock cracks.
He walks free... and dark things ride his shadow.
(originally written for Lily Child's Friday Prediction)