According to the gospel of....

The forest screamed for absolution. It's branches tangled in the past of motion. It developed so quick, tearing through those woods. Every tree. Clawing to take the leather bound book that was pronounced with the promise of angels.

These demons. Those demons. They wanted more. The winding clock seemed like such a better substitute at that moment. The night was pressing close behind breathing its barren song. The moon only cared to mediate, offering the occasional liberation of hope through mazes of turpentine.

Remember to never go against the grain. They'll hear every cautious step. Swine. Never thinking of the meal that rots in front of them, but their gluttonous desires, fueled by the petrified layers of feculence and selfishness.


Fear seeped from his eyes taking its time to magnify every misjudgment behind him.

"Unflinching. Unbreakable." he thought.

it had been the confession pointing the direction, so why was it so difficult to become the subdued?

graceful? hardly.

impossible? possibly.

It wasn't so much the thought of this all,but rather, the absence of gestures. Absence frequented guilt, and had yet to send him a postcard letting him know she was ok. That meaningless postcard with a reflection that plagued his thoughts.

It wasn't the first time emotion abandoned care.

The precursor, ushered the body of 4 to take their seats for the divine comedy was to actualize soon.

there, right there.

That was the gesture he had been waiting for. His eyes were done playing entrancing tricks. They now passed time exchanging questions, but never refutation. wasn't this the second act? was the intermission long overdue?

He couldn't remember. He couldn't worry.

Quickly, he took his seat, not to interfere those around him prying through the cracks, straining to see the decadent stage.


His peace took pride in knowing it had triumphed.

He took pride in knowing he had peace. Such an interesting predicament. The unknown guiding the known. The blind leading those who could see. Or was it just the sheep following sheep again.

Enter hero, stage left.

The play has begun. Masquerades of precise color and flashes of nervous glances, waltzing between brilliant symmetrical atmospheres.

Disgusting machines. Mechanical in your movement to conform to the play writes propoganda discretion. Do you trust his flinching eyes glazed with the fornication of the sand and the sea?

You all wear your masks, and hide the ugliness behind the layers that you've so hastily built up.

If you could only see how you look. Your rotting teeth falling from blasphemous mouths on deaf ears.

How ridiculous. The pauper prophesied of this to you. wondering when you would have its turn to parade around his court and entertain his guests.





PersonalMerek Davis