Selenic Bane

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.