The Oncoming Storm

January 11, 2012

The Gods, they whisper to me.
Sweet serenades, seducing my soul into sempiternal slumber.
Silently the world fades to the efflorescence beat of the Gods’ hearts.
I awaken to the burning of my abode. The Gods lullaby, ephemeral.
I hear the screams of the Wood-Folk as the barbarians attack.
The glamour of the God-Song ended. Ineffable beauty never to be heard as the men with steel-arms burn our homes.
We conflate together as we are surrounded. The children cry as the men of steel spit and sneer.
Denouement received as I awaken from my nightmare.
Harbinger of the God vision, I inform my brothers and sisters of the Oncoming Storm.
We flee through the thick labyrinthine forest.
Hearts in our throats, we say goodbye to the Gods, to our homes, and to our lives.

The Gods, they whisper to me. Too silently now…
I yearn to hear them.

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Nostalgia

May 23, 2010

Burning nostalgia.
So strong, intense, images searing through the pages of time.
A memory so strong you can still smell it, still taste it.
Flashes, thoughts, building, becoming clearer, the fog fades, the crystal becomes glass.
Could a memory be so powerful you could go back?
Could you travel through the very fragments of your soul to a memory so intense that you can exist in it? Make changes?
Could you perhaps flip through your life like the pages of a diary?
Can you remember who you are?
Can you remember who you were?
Can you remember who you will become?
Can you stop me?

I’d like to see you try.

We measure time by the annoying tick of the clock. We measure by our tedious sense of boredom. We measure life from start to finish.
From fade in to fade out. Why not fade away?
Does a memory vanish with your mind?
Or can you relieve the great and wonderful. Find the mysterious.
Feel the love.
Feel the heat. Feel it burn. Feel your body burn.
Ravenous flames burning your diary, your book of life.
Ink melts and seeps through the pages. Your life becomes a muddled mess.
Memories meld together and you forget what was when.
Wake up in a memory. Forget the writings. Your diary is blank.
Rewrite history.

Crimson Angel

May 6, 2010

The gravel beneath my bare feet softened and soothed my wounded feet. I felt the sloshing of mud squish between my toes. A complete spiritual enlightenment given to me by the forces that be. A connection not through something mystical like a soul… but through simple creation.
I tumble to my knees by the ice cold creek with barely enough energy to breath. The frosty water stings my face and my life flashes before my eyes.
I mumble in tongues, ancient and forbidden.
My God is not yours.

Dreams- confusing; images- no words.
Understanding silence. Full comprehension.
Heart and soul fed by the fires of your love.
Burning passion. Hot and intense, keeping me warm when I go cold.
My God is not yours.

The turn of the globe as small in the universe as the tiniest atom.
Small waves slap against my face, bringing me to consciousness.
Fallen soldier; do you even know I exist?
Thousands of words, showing inability to express the flame that burns for you.
My God is you, sweet crimson angel.

Thoughts and Souls

April 30, 2010

It was like somewhere along the way I had lost track of my own destination, fell out of touch with the person I wanted to be, forgot who I was and became the beast.

Trapped in a desert of sand, drowned in a salty sea, lost in a ravenous jungle, forgotten in the place of our dreams, we lose ourselves in the world of Fairytale.

That world. That world we wished existed when faced with the harsh cruelties of reality, where you try your hardest to live via a moral compass, to be overcome and seduced into the sinister.
Things become grey. Black and White fuse and you find yourself adrift in despair.

Laying upon green pastures as the thick scent of lavender fills the cool breeze. The souls whisper gently and the blowing grass tickles along my cheek. The clouds swiftly chase each other across the mid morning sky. The view is serene.

Self hatred and loathing start. Ruminating over the thought… could there be redemption? Can you escape through the barrier of thorns and dance upon the meadows?

Am I even alive? Am I a shadow? Or even a reflection? A Ghost in the fog…

The rain falls like tears from the sky, washing away my sorrows, the harsh wind blows through my hair and whispers to me that I am free.

Deception never tasted so evil. Thin crisps of trickery and the flavourless betrayal. Entombed in this torture for life without forgiveness.

Sorrowful songs are sung at dawn. Laments to those who wish to escape the fiery depths of hell and stand under Earth’s great sky and count the stars. I smell lavender and rosemary. Sweet and sour smells.

Now we’re all son’s of bitches.

All to Die

April 22, 2010

He begins carving his own face. Blood spills to the floor like water from an overflowing drain. The thick salty smell fills his nostrils as he hacks at his face like a butcher. Skin and blood fall like the fat chunks of meat they are.
The knife has reached his cheekbones and the man begins chiselling away at it. Chunking crushing sounds like sticking a shovel in sand.
He bashes at the bone as he screams, haunting long and painful screams. He cuts ferociously at it like knife against a dinner plate.
The screaming continues, long hard yelling amidst howling and crying.
The salty tears burn against the places where flesh once was. It stings so much that it is unbearable, yet the man continues, breaking through the bones and moving on to his own nose. He slices at it like a child would slice at cheese, there is nothing more then a deep dark bloody gap within a few seconds as the man’s screaming only radiates louder. He stops, and slowly moves over to the mirror for a look.
He inspects himself, raising an eyebrow and attempting a smile into the mirror.
He quickly dashes away and begins searching within the dark oak drawer next to the bed.
He is in a small dark room with little bits of dust floating around. He is rushing, and attempting to gain a hold of his new body, he is unsure of how to breath yet, he knows air fills his lungs but the feeling is strange without a nose.
He pulls out a small black object from the drawer. Holding it in front of him it begins flashing. It is a camera.
After a few minutes of photos the man picks the knife back up, and continues his carving.
He begins with simple symbols in his chest, but he does not know how long until that wont be enough… until he needs more destruction, more pain.
His teeth grit as he feels the insane hate and rage build within him, the urge rises again.
He screams with ravenous anger and begins punching himself in the face. Pulling and tugging at his teeth. He wants them out, they have to go.
He continues punching as blood and spit fly across the room. He runs back and forth across the room, beating himself, along the way bits of his face squishing in between his toes and sticking to his feet.
This annoys him. He begins stabbing at the chunks of his face now layering the floor.
He wants them to die. All to die.
He will burn them. Again in the oak draw he pulls out a bottle of Metho and some matches. He opens the lid and dances across the room, spraying the Metho everywhere, it sprays over his own body. It burns. He licks the place where his lips once were and grabs a box of matches. He begins to light before noticing a cheese grinder in the corner of his eye. He stops.
Before he goes he must use it at least once. He grabs a hold of it and pretends it is a bar of soap, as it slices skin from under his arms and his legs, ripping skin from all over his body. Satisfied, he proceeds to light a match. He holds it, staring deep into the flame.
He drops it.
Screams fill the night.