The Smile of the Unvanquished

as we trudge and traipse like an anemic spectral apparition across the elemental savagery that leaves the world in asphalt darkness,crossing this death mask of earth, pockmarked and indented by stygian dreams and crimson agony, shorn of beauty and civlility,we crave for the slighiest glimmer of verdant iridiscence, infallibly outwith our reach, made more lambent in our time-frozen reveries. yet our pedigree speaks of those far-out ultramundane lineages, that ride upon our wary soul throughout life's skewed alchemy and commove us against our recourse to hubristic contumacy to insatiate ourselves with the ichor from festering lacerations, bedizening the body of fallen lionhearts and their forsaken effigy. thus, we deliver the last vestiges of our humanity to the tyburn tree,to ascend from the fallow soil as a cimmerian rose, no seducee of the roseate caress sealing the easterly yonder, but forever forlorn this bloom mocks the providence's flailing abuse with our dissev...

Fostered illusions, shredded to mangled rags, whilst child-like innocence's tortured and left broken, choking in its viscera on a vertiginous ledge above a rigid, grimed tableau that intermittently vanishes under the chopping waves of a poisoned sea, where the merest suggestion of melancholy and blighted glory shan't reach out any final recourse to liniment for the dispirited man. His dreams revoked, his stamp on life's brittle and erratic weavework charged with heresy, he's also depurated from the crudeness, the deceit, and the spurious teachings of the humane consortium, and his path ushers him now to austere and forbidding lands harnessed in blotched and rusted sheets of metal twilight where his shadow prowls the stinging desolation as a hungry, demented black hound.

When the Moon stares blindly, vision coated in waxen livor mortis, fretting over a dinner of meagre nourishment evacuated from generations of ashes, bones,  and gristle torn and gnashed by Time's fangs and talons, the Night spits a sickly fog of gall and necrosis, awakening the Scratchman to loom over many a provincial Hamlet. Thus fever arouses man to writhing spasms that pitch and beam his Being to the serrated riffs of Carnage, and Tears long since dusted into briny sandstorms, and liberating Reveries choking under the weight of implacable Anguish are met by smirks pelting on futile legerdemains of Evasion. All vanity burned by gangrenous mischief, the Wrench yields parched as sun-kissed lizard skin, shuddering at the touch of Laments, to the empyrean irreverence of his atramentous Lodestar sired from hidden bitterness within deceptive sweetness.