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09-19-2013, 06:07 PM
Constantly consuming, ceaselessly corrupting, an echo of travesties, debauchery and fleshly, corporeal binding punctured and pierced, bonds forged on quiet, halting, yielding precipice; not the embarking of crusades or campaigns, but always the end results, the failures, the defeats, the crumbled empires. The solitude of a soldier’s faltering strides, the harmonious plunge of an angel’s knife, the poignant, eloquent edge of an aching cutlass, tuned and turned into ghostly labors, smoky labyrinths, rotten and ruined. The blinding rift of collapsed schemes, dissolute indulgences, and conspired impulsivities burned into the scope of his stare, and too domineering, too indomitable, too formidable, the General dared not look away. Would he be blinded by the altered circumstances, the sweeping hands of a fettered seraph’s grasp, filtered and withered away into a chasm of his unrelenting prowess, where the sinners murmured about their errors, their mistakes, the moments of escape passed by? Would he become some lowly heathen, crawling amongst the depths of creeping, slithering claws, where the earth swallowed his innards, left him to be a disemboweled cretin amongst the dank, decrepit iniquities? Would he be weakened, to give into licentious inclinations, to seethe and simmer, bubble and boil, sapped, enervated, stolen and sapped into a diluted, diminished monster? Should he balk, should he flee, should he retreat into the ashy web of shadows and darkness, forgo charismatic chances and veritable virtue? If he gave in, was he another rancorous fool, drunken and drugged, dragged and drained, across the chains of attachments, endearments, flickering intimacies smoldering, seething, searing over flesh, over mouth, over tongue, until the coals scarred him into brittle ash? If he offered everything of his prowess, the brawn, the power of his pernicious necromancy, the virility of his unreachable existence, of his stony, rigid, unwavering figure, would there be naught left of his unattainable soul – demonic, imperious detachment procured, obtained, acquired.
Or would he sink into the embrace of these munitions and be empowered by them? Would the predacious slate of his unholy possession, of his finessed forbidding, of his antagonistic prose and poise swallow the unforgiving reel of annihilation, heedlessly trap each gleam of her virtue, render it calloused, renounced, abandoned and relinquished, all for his feral, fierce havoc to lick, relish? Would he claim each passing tide of her mellifluous regret, push and pull until it bowed under his meticulous, bestial obliteration, kindle harpsichord raptures over the fires of avaricious abhorrence, Tartarean guile, serrated anarchy? He could stand and analyze the enveloping veil of intrigues and ruses sparking against his ethereal ruin, his decadent desolation, but the truth rumbled along his chest, netted and clasped verity between the glacial fixtures of his heart and the overwhelming, minatory enticement scorching, charring, singeing its intertwining embers into the shambles of his forlorn boughs; he was comfortable. He was secure. He was locked in Huyana’s presence as a piercing pariah, and made no move to vanish, disappear, in the wake of her tenderness, in the gentle, enveloping clutch and caress of repose. He trusted, he relied, he built credence and conviction in the ruin of his reticent, rapier chords, of devoured discord and impending malice, allowed his eyes to close over the touch of her humility, the raw, unwinding caress of her finesse, her grace, her enchantments until she engulfed his sinister terror and filled each ferocious layer with precious sentiments, with sanctity, with deliverance. Sedition and insurrection preyed, heathen strokes crooned, and the ravenous predilection of his iniquitous strife brewed the strangest incantation throughout his lungs, along his chest, into his vocals, until it followed on a wild exhalation, on her silly assertion of her thoughts stained and mottled with his sinister, severe, deadly existence.
The Reaper laughed, permitted the rough bark to swell and burst into the sumptuous, midnight air as he opened his nefarious stare, concentrated on the unique sound bleeding from his larynx like a grating rupture of abandoned candor and humor. He’d forgotten the last time he’d expressed amusement, the last moments where he’d touched upon anything comical, besides the unwinding of foolish souls, the grinding friction of murder and mayhem, and the notion almost surprised him. His lips cracked into a vicious smile, then dimmed all over again as he remembered the query he’d fostered, stare traversing and meandering back to the shadowed peaks so that he may relish the moment a little longer, place it in between the memories of family, of heritage, of unbroken impressions and recollections not soiled, not sundered, by the fall of a child, the rise of a darkened scion. Deimos absorbed her touch, her caress, leaned upon it as a predacious fiend, glorified and enhanced in his monstrous reign by the forgotten grandeur of immorality, tender scopes of ignored, disregarded mercilessness. If he ever granted clemency, it was to this creature, one of rain, one of droplets, one of all the endless regrets drowned in the wake of her perilous cascades, martyr to the sea and diamond to the ocean; he the restless Ares, she the tranquil nymph. Pressing closer, he leaned towards the itch, the tear, the ravished seam of his careful stitching, consigned the fabric of his stinging maelstroms, inveigling iniquities, potent puissance, to the feverish, amatory whisper dragged over her ear, ghosting along her brow, a sumptuous, sensual breath mingling with the moon’s clarity, the amusement tangled in his stare. “Foolish.” Unwise, to give yourself away to me, for me to give myself over to you.
