Thursday, February 12, 2015


Rabble rouse the dark horse, cannon. Gentle Mother. Lies and vacant lots of memory. Dance. Feel it now, grab it while you have the chance. This is how the game is played.

March forward, blind warriors - called to arms they cannot bear. Left to a desolation devoid of care. Angel of Darkness, bless them, for they know not what they do. Angel of Mercy, bear them up so they may stand when the fighting's through.

It is a black shadow. A sliver of menace - but wrapped in forgotten jokes and shared memory. There is no light if you don't create it.

So, take this then. This green seedling, this sprout of new life, smelling of anise. Pour the dew in the blood-stained chalice.

There are not enough demons to expunge your wrath, even if you light the path. Hypocrisy, we're thick with it. Like flies. Like back-hand lies.

We feel the cool earth, smell the soil, rich, we skirt the men inside the ditch.

Time is a liar. That is a lie. Every word that falls, like blood, dripping from the page, every gentle hand entreating - don't you know what you're creating? A labyrinth you will never escape.

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