The detached, heartless statue watched his minuet design, the cursed, damned condemnation of life, as it dwindled another of breathing, of beating, of wishing and dreaming. Here was his gift brought to unfurling, unwinding ardor, fervent and plaguing, touching, caressing until it consumed, relinquished and abandoned the perished and departed being. With one ruthless fixation, it had poisoned the air, the ground, noxious, toxic, tainted, and he merely stood, witnessing the bedlam cast a callous spell. This was the destruction he’d promised the earth, the iniquity and licentious creed bestowed by his father, the acrimony and maelstrom he’d annihilated in each arcane arch of his argent body. The Pegasus, an unknown enemy, was not the first, and would not be the last to be damned by his monstrous animosity, his cold conviction, his hardened, desolate rapture, or his feral indignation. Had he been given the chance, all of the intruders would have felt the swinging plunge of his scythe, of his reaper potency, of his raw, undulating power. Eventually, he thought. They’d understand the dark trappings of his puissant disposition, of his intimidating, formidable, chilling oeuvre. They’d shriek, scream, and grow silent, just like this creature, doomed by the sinister terror thriving, pulsing, crooning a sinuous, slinking beat in his hollow, desolate heart. He’d devour the world. Amidst the smoldering, unwinding havoc, he bowed his head once to the fallen, a final, rampant decadence along the treacherous, predacious grandeur, because here was a victory amongst the many losses. With a slinking prowess, his enigmatic, cryptic conceit left the grounds, just as cold, just as reserved, as he’d been before.
[Deimos out.]
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