Your mind despises what it cannot see,
It loathes what lay beyond the realm of human existence.
It cannot fathom the truth, the horror, the torture, the dormant hell that has yet to arise from its cross-hatched, criss-crossed grave.
Scratch marks run along the outer walls,
The metal, durable cage becomes no more.
The body he had once took vital control over...
Has been reduced to rubble. Reduced to nothing but dust in the wind, smoldering ash upon a wooden ashtray.
Flaming worlds can be heard lamenting for forgiveness, howling for mercy, using the blunt of their inhumanly human cuticles to pathetically attempt escaping their obsidian prison. Only the underworld is capable of fabricating such ghastly tales.
Abstruse penmanship displayed inside a leather bound book, tattered pages clinging to their margins,
A hunched figure clad in a caliginous suit, fitted with a simplistic tie, can be seen scribbling down nonsensical words and phrases that only rang true to him.
"Adhere to the ways of the old, submit to the ways of the wicked, heed warnings which spew forth from thy lips..."
Eyes of molten black smear the corners of your mind.
He senses you grasping a pen of your own.
Maybe you are spared?
Maybe you are not.
ns 15.158.61.5da2
