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09-07-2013, 04:45 PM
In the arms of the elements restless stone molded into an archaic, primitive blend of eroded marble and corroded monolith – lithe, minute contortions of primal incantations, a sinuous ripple of water puncturing the reticent altar of silence, filling in the void of hushed lures and quiet, aloof entropy. The devil’s opus, strung by snaking, supple strings, the distorted hymns of a master’s oeuvre, a masterpiece carved into diligent, limber insouciance was pierced with the simple minuet chords of the sea-born girl’s motions. Churned by currents, by waves, by rivulets and droplets, cascading munitions of a careful, scrupulous smile, a saddened grin, a trusting silence embraced by the void of bleeding heart sentiments witnessed, transfixed. Dipping into the springs, lissome, willowy, embarking into vestal mirages and ruffled songs, divinity upon her breath, and when he caught the ghostly trace, the exhalation, he barbed the air with sumptuous immorality, scintillating sin, barbarous brutality. Lacerating stare ensnared, snagged and beguiled by her entrance, he merely captured, allowed temptation, enticement to bridge over his sight, the wake of her sorrows, watched as they drifted into the open embankment of still, muted serenity, the art of repose, tried to imagine the embalming sentiments of anguish and torment. The symphony of terror, the translation of loss, the ire and errors concocted by dominating beings, stealing, absconding, awakening the filth of the earth; and he was one of the satanic, nefarious beings, plucking and toying with ancient kingdoms, hoping they’d crumble before his eyes, become ashes in the depth of his wrathful wake. Demonic, Tartarean, the chilling pinnacle of pernicious annihilation, seeking obliteration in the empty fallows of his tarnished, tainted essence. What did she aim for, in this denizen of smoke, horror and melancholy? Why did she return to the coated requiems and laments of gloaming, without preaching her might, her wishes, her fantasies? Did she yearn to delve, dive, into melancholy, drink the blood, sweat and tears of the strangled, dying bits of heaven? The sweet fervor of ambrosia before it tumbled, crashed from peaks and clouds? Why did she sacrifice her sanctity over and over again for the fuel of despair, ignited and despondent as each season passed, more deplorable than the last? Why did she sketch the outline of his sanctum, pass over the wreckage of his predacious prowess, build smiles around his taciturn walls, carve monumental hopes along the ridges of his cruelty? Why, after all this time, did he let her?
The Reaper maneuvered forward, embraced by the curving, twisting undulation of the pulsing, coiled fount, a maddening, slow conviction pressing deep into his ruthless design. Muscles licked by the licentious creed of his brutal ferocity, of his raptorial fervor, fusing into the remorseless, iniquitous flame of his ethereal existence, heathen brushstrokes dabbing over the mire of his argent domination and debauchery, swindled the nocturne air for the taste, the touch, of her veritable virtue. Did he miss it, the potent caress of her plundered beneficence, forever neglected, renounced, abandoned and forsaken, matching his unholy possession for the imperious indifference of his ravenous plucking, his unforgiving cauldron of avarice? Had he looked for amongst the wild, ravenous splendor of woods, fields, shadows and light? Had he waited for the simmer of her aspirations as seasons rolled without her grandeur, a statue seeking the gleam, the finery, the glow, the warmth, hoping to be woven without seditious threads, without penetrating, forbidding seams? Had he yearned to taste the dignity, the poise, the prose, of her resolve, devour, swallow, and condemn until she cooled the weight of his meticulous, demanding villainy? The infidel’s advance brought his argent figure in front of her body of blue, and he lowered his mouth to ghost over her ear, the sensation of deadly breath stroking the raw tides, the vivid bulbs of her confidences, brimming and brewing with the finality of his carnivorous soul. For once, he bestowed her with something, reaching out with a confession unseen from nonchalant features, his rapt, blunt, untamed candor, the wreckage of folly clawing into his flesh, into his innards, into his sentiments, until they poured from his tongue, crooned along his lips, and dabbled into her mind in one fiendish, unraveling whisper. “I am tired of defeat.” Invasions, campaigns, scathed and ruined, battles fought and won with heedless direction, with merciless, torn fragments, with nothingness entombing the bloodied efforts of his crusades. Machinations, calculations and devotion marred, ruined, obliterated at every bewitching turn. Carefully drawing the control of his noxious enchantments, for a scarce, shattering moment, he turned his rigid, apathetic face into her cheek. Bowing his head against her strength, he fed and fueled her the certainty, the confidence, of his power, loosened the taut fabrications of his heresy, and heaved the smallest of drained, haggard sighs across her skin.
