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Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place Another storm, another tempest, brooding and brewing within the muck and mire; he conspired brutality, lavished and lacquered fatality, sought the convictions of all the other contorted, fiendish things lurking and bubbling within the distorted atmosphere. The Reaper, the demon, the monster, followed suit like most of the other behemoths, slithering and slinking, drawn to the stories of gods and the delusions of grandeur: suited to opulence, to decadence, to ruthless, licentious whims – he recalled the other instances of disaster and ruin, sought it with every indignant, bestial bone in his body. Through the striking, humid imbalance of summer and heedlessness, he torched and scorched and mauled; setting his feet upon the sand below, beneath the vicious waves and the toxic, rolling indifference, a slave to nonchalance and entropy, a weapon combined with the flowing venom of a seething, impending rapture: eager to run the world like a blade. A twisted rapier, a viper cutlass, a manifested, sculpted Colossus, he settled nearly between the void of beasts and vermin, planted and rooted in disastrous outlooks. He paid a bit of reverence to the celestial being nearby, because at some point he’d granted powers to the rain, lowering his skull and staring at the earth, before maneuvering his molten stare over the reigning forces and the particular din (paying heed to his boy dancing across the waves), and wondering what cretin lurked within their grasp. What would pay credence to their wiles now? What mercurial essence would boil and erupt from the soused fumes? What sovereign did they inhabit and dream to conquer? How far would they sin – deeper and deeper into the ravenous plumes, clawing and clawing and clawing until there was nothing left, until what they sought was satisfactory? His Machiavellian, swift, calculating skull drummed with the vehement possibilities, an escape into the rapture of war and decay – a yearning, a longing, hollowed within each segment of bone; all devil, all might.
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Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
