REMINISCENT OF "THE SCREWTAPE LETTERS":
An Interview With The Forsaken:
We tired of becoming one flesh, altered by the dark sublimations of the moon, deepened in the directly discerning twilight; masterful are we, creators of heavenly beings, creatures of air, and foam, and ice. Draped in unconventional horrors, bred in ferocious replication, approximating virility, our unholy plague descends, as the demented miasma spreads. We are defeated creatures, built of breath and heat and stone. We can save nothing of ourselves, as our world rots wholly from within. I cannot share the brutal cataclysm I have known, for we tormented ones must writhe in agony, as our souls are burned away.
Constructions of a fabricated narrative and cynical accumulations of fallible assumptions, torn from page to page of righteous holy writ; our legends are broken in the making, while our homes are shattered by the overwhelming power of these memories. None can speak the names of the lost ones, whose eternal breath must draw us, each towards his time. She wears three spangled garments, as a marker of her shame, which she has deftly stolen from those who would not have her. I cannot become enraged at her mistreatment and demise, because it was, even so, a choice of her own making. Wings of glass shall bear her unto heaven, a mastery of flight which holds the promise of the wakeful, infinite divine.
Our minds are never one, although our hearts would have it so. She falters in her inner workings, participating within the treason she has herself devised. I cannot follow her tormented heart, nor waste these days in search of her wayward inspiration, for I have failed longest in pursuit of her imagination. Weapons we have forged, of bronze and bold intent; yet, she unknowingly barters our belongings to strangers for her keep. Our notions of the truth cannot harm the dead ones, who have no uses for such revelry.
Our lives as beacons unto their passage, that they may yet return, as she did once so promise me. We cannot be free within this fire; the demons must now descend, and I can naught but answer them. Our call has been to liberate the unbelievers from this mockery of the light. She minds nothing but the winds, which give her certain solace. Her mind is set at ease, as she hovers well nigh through peacefulness, a spectre on the breeze. Our hearts are wretched, wrathful lumps of soulless demon flesh. We must consume the infidels, that none may survive the righteous judgement of our lamentable fury, our wanton destruction, and our haphazard visitations of suffering and death, upon this humbled land.
The uncertainty grows within me, as my tears form empty registers of grief, multiplying as they are, amidst the surrounding carnage, blood-soaked remnants of laughing human flesh. Such gifts are spurned and scorned without acceptance or comprehension; as pearls among swine. The sensual butchery of these lamented ones fills each one of my infernal demon kin with a blazing fervour, culminating in a heated and orgasmic revelation; yet, she remains unspoiled by our dark ritual, her features ever strong, against this unholy onslaught; she is not daunted by the brutality of night.
Woe unto the Norsemen, who dwell within the Norselands; our foul craft they have stolen, our murderous intent seethes within their breasts; they will make our legends known. I have no doubt that she will find me, in the distance and the morning, bright with salt and sea, as the farthest white horizon. Her breath is love; and I die as its abysmal tendrils creep across my mind. She is at the end of every voyage; her knowledge, both vast and insurmountable, discerns all secrets; nothing is hidden from before her eyes, she sees with the utmost clarity, each fractured soul, each dismembered child; she is our only fear, and master of us all.
We tired of becoming one flesh, altered by the dark sublimations of the moon, deepened in the directly discerning twilight; masterful are we, creators of heavenly beings, creatures of air, and foam, and ice. Draped in unconventional horrors, bred in ferocious replication, approximating virility, our unholy plague descends, as the demented miasma spreads. We are defeated creatures, built of breath and heat and stone. We can save nothing of ourselves, as our world rots wholly from within. I cannot share the brutal cataclysm I have known, for we tormented ones must writhe in agony, as our souls are burned away.
Constructions of a fabricated narrative and cynical accumulations of fallible assumptions, torn from page to page of righteous holy writ; our legends are broken in the making, while our homes are shattered by the overwhelming power of these memories. None can speak the names of the lost ones, whose eternal breath must draw us, each towards his time. She wears three spangled garments, as a marker of her shame, which she has deftly stolen from those who would not have her. I cannot become enraged at her mistreatment and demise, because it was, even so, a choice of her own making. Wings of glass shall bear her unto heaven, a mastery of flight which holds the promise of the wakeful, infinite divine.
Our minds are never one, although our hearts would have it so. She falters in her inner workings, participating within the treason she has herself devised. I cannot follow her tormented heart, nor waste these days in search of her wayward inspiration, for I have failed longest in pursuit of her imagination. Weapons we have forged, of bronze and bold intent; yet, she unknowingly barters our belongings to strangers for her keep. Our notions of the truth cannot harm the dead ones, who have no uses for such revelry.
Our lives as beacons unto their passage, that they may yet return, as she did once so promise me. We cannot be free within this fire; the demons must now descend, and I can naught but answer them. Our call has been to liberate the unbelievers from this mockery of the light. She minds nothing but the winds, which give her certain solace. Her mind is set at ease, as she hovers well nigh through peacefulness, a spectre on the breeze. Our hearts are wretched, wrathful lumps of soulless demon flesh. We must consume the infidels, that none may survive the righteous judgement of our lamentable fury, our wanton destruction, and our haphazard visitations of suffering and death, upon this humbled land.
The uncertainty grows within me, as my tears form empty registers of grief, multiplying as they are, amidst the surrounding carnage, blood-soaked remnants of laughing human flesh. Such gifts are spurned and scorned without acceptance or comprehension; as pearls among swine. The sensual butchery of these lamented ones fills each one of my infernal demon kin with a blazing fervour, culminating in a heated and orgasmic revelation; yet, she remains unspoiled by our dark ritual, her features ever strong, against this unholy onslaught; she is not daunted by the brutality of night.
Woe unto the Norsemen, who dwell within the Norselands; our foul craft they have stolen, our murderous intent seethes within their breasts; they will make our legends known. I have no doubt that she will find me, in the distance and the morning, bright with salt and sea, as the farthest white horizon. Her breath is love; and I die as its abysmal tendrils creep across my mind. She is at the end of every voyage; her knowledge, both vast and insurmountable, discerns all secrets; nothing is hidden from before her eyes, she sees with the utmost clarity, each fractured soul, each dismembered child; she is our only fear, and master of us all.
posted by Valhenstrogg | Sunday, July 27, 2003
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