A bitter, cold sword is among the callous distortions of bedlam and anarchy, a sweeping vice pardoned by the glacial, frigid essence of rancorous beasts, so besotted in the follies of corruption, calamity and catastrophe. Their touch is wicked and demoralizing, consumed by the fiendish, coarse acrimony settling in their cooled veins, like the swiftest brush of death laden upon one’s warm body, the sharpest kiss, piercing, penetrating, stealing the edge of flesh with keen passion and delusions. Protagonists of the brazen, bold and despaired; immorally sacrificing emotions for the scathing tip of a hissing cutlass, winding and waning, a heathen’s indifferent caress – they embrace with steel, repel with ambivalence. Rebelling affection for the dance of malevolence, artfully savage and callously cruel, they are no more than a weapon, a blackguard, a shield and scythe, blending imperfection with blinding dedication, the seething bounty of all they perceive and control, dominance in the suave entropies of unholy minds. Created to distort and warp, destroying virtue, condemning purity, bound to obscure the pliant flesh of a beloved benediction, scarred into stiff arbitration and molded amongst a canvas of ethereal casualties. So rigidly sculpted in the form of menacing beauty, a malice worn into decadent, elegiac forms, behemoths of merciless, ruthless fatality with the face of Hell’s last angels. Swarthy muscles and a serpent’s tongue, salaciously brandishing the rich palisades with deep tenors and dark desires, reshaping contorting dreams into brutal realities with enigmatic affliction and brutal persuasion. A maelstrom for the wicked, a savior for the licentious, bleeding revolution and breathing insurrection, humming devilish croons amongst the haughty baritones of fallen opposition. Unyielding furor and fervor, tightly wound in the Stygian waves of turmoil’s thickest threads, unleashed on the masses of deceived and beguiled, winding their fatal song of eradication. With one shove, they destroy empires, with one plunge, they shatter palaces, with one smirk, they fell the wakes of mortals, crush, demolish and ruin.
And in their hedonistic creation, they lose all humanity.
Eternally young and everlastingly heinous, the seditious brute stood, still composed, still nonchalant through their weary glances and distrustful stares. Devouring morality, consuming rectitude, he was not made of soft, malleable strings, but diabolical, twilight webbed strands, twisted into the fine, scrupulous, nocturne silk, avarice and abhorrence dipped in sinister barbs. Cold, carved, marble statue of vile depravity was inspired to chuckle, again, in so short a timeframe – the queries poised to him were laughter-worthy, with the torn irony of their flagrant ignorance. What skills would you bring to your would-be home? Were they so obsessed with his threatening prowess that they forgot witnessing other portions of his existence? His chilling eyes narrowed slightly; a twist to his masculine lips may have kindled a smirk, but the notion quickly disappeared. Instead, the macabre tenor of his speech ignited, flat, deep, emotionless in the licentious shade. “You cannot see it?” Deimos, this treacherous son of unicorns and heathens, lowered his massive head, indicative, teaching. There, within what had once been blades of twinkling, vivacious grass, the viral venom of his devil caress destroyed, ravaged, ruined. From the edges of his hooves: a choking, suffocating bane extinguished lives in minute, savage frames, falling in perilous, silent screams. A circle of death reigned from his still figure, verdant turned to dwindling, perished brown or a thick, inert black, curled, withered, decayed by the sumptuous, decadence of his feral, uncontrolled demeanor. He raised his cranium once more, poised his dark stare to each, stag and mare, allowing the raw fatality of his voice to strike again. “Everything I touch dies.”
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master of nothing place, of recoil and grace
