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02-08-2014, 06:41 PM
The Reaper didn’t count his losses, the pitfalls or the pendulums. Instead, he waited, sowed seeds of sedition: slashed, scraped, let the molten, decaying air rasp and curl amidst his lungs. Days of iniquity slipped and passed in deplorable corruption, remaining a quiet pinnacle of perilous clarity, muted, taciturn bearings trapped and twisted in the serrated pariah’s annihilating bones, sinking and simmering within raptorial predilection; carnivore rapture. Through the fatal insurrection and revolution, he sought the tremulous, turbulent desires of a menacing opus, the ringing, the toiling, the telling, writhing, wrathful animosity clinging to eaves and burning, scalding lacerations unwinding along macabre chords. Meticulous, hot friction, scathing and sliding amidst the infernal indignation, the outstretched arms of heathens, of a poet’s savage, nefarious prose written in iambic, war scales, heightening violence and unraveled splendor, the savage harpoon, the bestial havoc, the strife of damned knives. Silken, smooth predator caught and snared in the ferocious blend of hollowed, heinous veils and deplorable boughs, lurking, waiting, for that reverie, that clamor, of deliverance – to sink the deadly elegance of his cutlass into alms and arms, to taste, devour, consume and feast upon the labors of ferocity coiling in his veins, wild, enticing temptation and anticipation. Monstrous divinations and yearnings, heartless whims tied to his sumptuous, seething grasp: darkness conquering darkness, evil piercing wickedness, contempt and loathing conspiring against malice and malevolence. The world couldn’t nurture its own onslaughts without terror, horror, and devastation rearing its ruthless head, its Stygian skull, treachery in the midst of its forgotten, Tartarean sculptures. Satan’s eternally damned, possessive, pulsing, beating, Lucifer’s majestic creation, Mephistopheles’ ancient, archaic, arcane design of severity and acerbic, mordant embraces, trebles of unsung violence. Villainy and pestilence, nettled and forbidding, sinister and ominous, wrought iron and fortitude from a callous, distorted being, made and chiseled fragments of stone into living, breathing vehemence, and now it threatened to turn against its creator; taste the ichor of acrimony from the brutal allure of its predacious oeuvre. Death desired entropy until kingdoms collapsed at his feet, frozen in fury, lapsed over in glacial, tenacious winter, broken and crumbled by the empty, vacant nonchalance of his depravity. But how?
Another approached, and the swing of his cranium, the fiendish, forsaken reel of cold-blooded, acrimonious brushstrokes followed hymns of maelstroms, caught the glow of desecration mottled along lips and spider web incantations, watched the woman whom invited the devil to her house. If it were some other beast, combing the laurels, the diamonds, the moss and threads, he may have spliced into enmity, bent into primordial hazards and swung the noose of gallows along their throats, listened to the wind whistle through their nares, witnessed one more finale. However, the mare had offered them far more than the rest of the earth (and who could blame the wretches; when their horns offered execution and slaughter, rabbits chased by wolves, too deeply consumed by the infernal wakes of debauchery. He wouldn’t have told them either, gratified to leave their forms to the merciless caprices of the earth, or offer the last plunge into their hearts himself.), and he was forced, bound, to the intrigues and intricacies of generosity. He should have been grateful, and the notion tore against his soul, because an eldritch titan was not taught appreciation (mayhem, bedlam, discord), but he inclined his head into a lowering gesture all the same, proffering the small nuances of his shambled convictions. “Thank you.” Pondering frayed at the edges of his sinister synapses, declared a pillaging, Machiavellian pursuit, down the length of his taut, minute motions, over the demolition and strife seized and possessed in the corridors of his sinful mind. Why would, beyond the burrows and furrows of her proclaimed righteousness, she grant them salvation when others would have been content to see them buried in their own armaments? Was there something more, a need, a necessity, for reaching out towards the atrocious, the animalistic, the cretins and infidels, extending olive branches along fathoms of serpents and ruin? What required a pernicious throng of puissant, antagonistic prowess? Did something twist in her meticulous avenues as well? Deimos had lived for too long, had sought too much anarchy to believe the world was full of charity and beneficence – there was more to these annals and entrails of life in shadow. His lips parted once more, indulgent, curious, inquisitive, lending his sinuous notions voice and beguiling ambition, but only to the necessities, the essentials. The Asylum itself, with derangement and lunacy embroidered across its title, could wait in the empty shackles of the cavern for further perusal and duplicity. “What do we face? Can we combat it?” And then, the swing of wretched presage, disquiet and unrest, upheaval slinking past oaths of desecration and decomposing obliteration, dangling and strangling wayward souls. “How may we provide aid?” A mutual exchange of demise, scythes, swords and daggers bending to the strict, rigid, indifference mottled across his insouciant brow.
