(no subject)
He stands in the middle of an empty colliseum, listening to the ghosts call his name. He wears the ancient garb of his people, and his chest and arms are bare. He has painted himself blue in the old way, intricate symbols traced along his many scars, echoing and summoning ancient magics of courage and power. He spreads his arms wide, and in the dying light of an ever-aging sun he can see them once more. He sees the patricians and the plebians, he sees the ladies and the whores, all painted the same to show their differences, all looking on with the same mixture of lust and revulsion. He can see the lions stalking around the arena, smell the musk of their breath, hear the low menace of their growls. He is armed with a sword of battered steel, the brass wire twisted around its hilt long devoid of any luster. He stands alone in the arena, listening to the ghosts cheer and curse him, watching the lions that aren't there prepare for the spring.
Somewhere in the city a boy cries out in the dark, lonliness thrusting a sudden dagger into his side. His mother is out with her boyfriend, and his father is stalking through the house with evil on his mind and in his heart. Somewhere far away he can hear the people shouting his name, urging him to courage and to valour, but no lion ever scared him worse than the obese man with the sweaty hands.
A owl flies across the moon and stardust falls in her wake. A thousand pixies dance their final revel before the christians come to rip away their existence. The satyr cavorts with the wood nymph (tonight she gives in to his pleas; tonight before they are no more they will be once again for the first time and forever). They cannot hear a child's weeping, they cannot see the lions leaping; all they see is the end of time and the final march of the moon down her long road to the darkness that lurks beyond the horizon.
A thousand thousand soldiers charge the line, their boots filling with blasted sand as they try to take the trench once more. Gunfire rips through the night like a razor through a lover's throat and a thousand thousand fall to the ground, their collective mass shaking the Earth. Deep within its bowels, the ripples of their fall triggers a chain reaction, driving one small plate a little to the right. This triggers a volcano to release, and it spends its fury in the air like a cloud of pyroclastic semens, deathseed coating everything around for miles with a sterile mantle.
The blue and painted man stands in the middle of the dead arena, and he begins to sing a song as four worlds die in here and now and never-was.
Somewhere in the city a boy cries out in the dark, lonliness thrusting a sudden dagger into his side. His mother is out with her boyfriend, and his father is stalking through the house with evil on his mind and in his heart. Somewhere far away he can hear the people shouting his name, urging him to courage and to valour, but no lion ever scared him worse than the obese man with the sweaty hands.
A owl flies across the moon and stardust falls in her wake. A thousand pixies dance their final revel before the christians come to rip away their existence. The satyr cavorts with the wood nymph (tonight she gives in to his pleas; tonight before they are no more they will be once again for the first time and forever). They cannot hear a child's weeping, they cannot see the lions leaping; all they see is the end of time and the final march of the moon down her long road to the darkness that lurks beyond the horizon.
A thousand thousand soldiers charge the line, their boots filling with blasted sand as they try to take the trench once more. Gunfire rips through the night like a razor through a lover's throat and a thousand thousand fall to the ground, their collective mass shaking the Earth. Deep within its bowels, the ripples of their fall triggers a chain reaction, driving one small plate a little to the right. This triggers a volcano to release, and it spends its fury in the air like a cloud of pyroclastic semens, deathseed coating everything around for miles with a sterile mantle.
The blue and painted man stands in the middle of the dead arena, and he begins to sing a song as four worlds die in here and now and never-was.