The Smile of the Unvanquished

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.