Tucked away in the vestiges of his memory were the wanton days of childhood, where the resplendence of day set and the darkness of his world began. Twisting, nocturnal veils and the nefarious grip of the devil across his shriveled, decomposing heart: cruelty born and mayhem unraveled, christened and anointed for the shambles of heresy and savagery, when his incantations, uncontrolled, unfettered, were relinquished and scattered to the world. They drowned and demolished the fabric of his beloved tokens; the earth, brightened by the midday sun, tossed by the luminous rays, folded and withered beneath his hooves. The tides, where the horizon met the waves, ceased their fervent current amidst his wandering. Animals fled, screeched and screamed from the twisted manacles of his macabre despondency, and over time his youthful, tearful, melancholy aches shriveled into impassive masses, watched and witnessed as the plains wilted, castles eroded, and rock became rubble. Where there weren’t tainted embodiments, where there weren’t painted shadows, where the land did not cease to contort from his infernal oeuvre, he created iniquity, he painted immorality, drew it across the canvas of virtue, whims and majesty, slithered and destroyed the impeccable foils and foibles of lost harmony. He bewitched, connived and annihilated, chased and devoured, led beasts to slaughter, held daggers aloft, pinpointed into hearts. He murmured enchantments, necromancy and spells that drove wickedness into the core of the firmest believers, carved infidels from the sanctified and sacred, lavished demise onto crisp foyers of the living. Unholy, corrupt and depraved, the sinned became sinner, ceased lamentations and composed, sang, sculpted, the raptures, the reverie, the reasons for dirges and requiems. Beguiled, tormented, allured and devastated the rectitude, honor and morality, constructing tribulations, traumas, the molten monster ready to set sovereignty ablaze, the blackened, corroded pariah, the seditious, insurrect cretin waiting to consume dynasties and districts of humanity. If he couldn’t find misery in the strings of righteousness, he plucked their harmonious instruments until they rang only iniquitous stanzas, distorted, disorderly lyrics christened for the wealth of debauchery and turmoil, the tangled mess of lawlessness. Anarchy plagued, fueled, incensed and invoked by the restless candor of an annihilated soul – no mirador, no tower, no campanile to be found to hasten to its steeple, to wreck its walls, to tear down its statues and rubble; satanic harmony poised for persecution, prosed for grinding, unwinding friction; slaughter carved into corporeal form.

She shivered, and his tyrannical glare studied as water shriveled, shuddered, a pool, a reservoir, a ripple in the silence. Even as she quivered and quavered along the lake’s edge, he knew it was not by his intimidation; she was too stubborn to allow derision, to permit scorn, and to be garnered into withering shards by the ruthlessness of his diabolical entity. Out of malevolence he almost yearned, almost desired, almost coveted the touch of her ire, the caress of her vehemence and elegy, but the thought is cast aside moments thereafter, to fall adrift in the midnight foils and toils. She’d seen disintegration, dilapidation, and still wandered in his harsh, unrelenting presence, not choking, not drowning, not escaping. Instead of committing to his ferocity, to his brutality, to his callous, heartless, savage regime, he awaited an answer from her inquiring gaze, from her curious depths, from the drawn range of her fixations. What was he suited for but the arch of detachment, the shadows of the evening and the heat of execution? What was he created for but the touch, the taste, the savored relish of the devil’s harmony, of Lucifer’s whispers and Mephistopheles’s machinations? What else had he been conjured for? What was left of the world for him to squander, destroy and demolish? What more was he to accomplish upon the earth: unending calculations, eternal runes, the hush, the silence, of tombstones, graves and catacombs?

The rainchild didn’t tell him, leaving curiosity uprooted and shambled, broken, bent fragments, slivered pieces, like chaotic croons in the vapor of her exhalations. The world is not such a dark place, you know. He nearly laughed, because he created darkness from the shambles of his heart, his pernicious puissance, the cruel cutlass of his soul. He brought the mantles, the veils, the curtains and canopies of tainted intrigue, left them swallowed and devastated in the barbaric wake of his candor. Forsaken once more, he traced the movement of her finesse, her lissome, limber pose, drew closer as she dipped her head downwards, defiling, polluting the nocturnal fervor of the twilight consecrations. His arcane, enigmatic features lowered, invading, capturing, seizing, followed her motions until the reticence, the rapier formation, were locked upon hers, a breathless, rancorous, whispering hum, soft, crackling murmur, away. Molten mouth, parted, licentious, carnal, brutal, stoked the heat of his bestial armaments, the siege of his torment, pulsed over, against, the shell of her ear, uttering the discordant trace of quietus, of interest brewing in the doldrums of decay, the heinous, seething brush of bedlam. “Show me.”

[100th. <333]