“Verbose” comes to mind.
The sky above seems normal, a somber sunset over dusty red cliffs. But as the eye descends, reality comes undone. The surface of what must have been a sea is split from the base of the cliffs, and upturned like a leaflet of nature’s novella where it is impaled by a branch of some formerly sunken tree. Though it mirrors the cliffs in its surface, the reflections seem as stones of their own.
A larger tree, sliced into disjointed segments, carries a clock sagging under the weight of its time. Below, perchance beneath the lifted sea, lies another, similarly melted clock with its rim segmented into golden curves. To its right and down, another clock; this one undulates like the waves of the sea when it was whole. In the background swims a massive mackerel or other fish, its wide eye thoroughly confused at the broken fabric of existence.
And below it all lie rectangles. rectangles upon yards of rectangles, arrayed as what may have once been a seabed or a land across the water from the now levitating cliffs. They stretch onwards and backwards, up and down, coloured flatly yet resembling their former shape from the human desire to make sense of things. And, below them, a final clock, parts of its face shattered atop the geometric blocks while the melting body sinks below.