Green gravel trails onto my cup, devastated that it melts into my arm, I leave bits and pieces of others scattered across my path. This is the power I say, keeping blades to qualm myself. Anyone can be there, but I am too much. All inhibitions or desire lose their strangle over me as I become immortal. The laws of man no longer apply. I can kill without repercussion.
All can tremble but they are too busy being devoured by my sword. Looking into my soul I find two stately flowers, one is black and deeply rooted, in my arm, but the other is small, pristine and gently nestled under my heart. My heart isn’t beating, so I trudge on, creating a great flood of crimson leaving most I cut in sad pieces on the ground or floating corpses that revolve around me.
I am struck by a divine thought, one of infinite mobility. I stand before my perfect self and I strive to run. He won’t let me, he holds the bowl, the one I left my pouring lit life inside. We explode in a volley of swings and blades, turning and winding and churning, ones of astrological proportions.
Now he lays dead at my feet, longing to kill again, but it all subsides. Golden sheathes appear at me and I decide to do so. My great blade of gentle massacre is drowned and left as such. My become footsteps leave me and I am alone. This nubile state leaves me with boundless opportunity that I seize with passion.
The line of dead don’t talk and we all smile. Truth is beauty, beauty truth, but my right arm still shakes without a mercy. I grip the tainted flower planted upon me, and with my strength I shake it free. A white-hot burning is cast upon me and in my pain I regret the losses. Keep on the mask, I say. It’s fun for now.
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