He smiled as my casket desperately failed to escape this damming fate.  Even the Earth knew of my birth to the grave.  I could hear the worms screaming beneath me.  It was only a matter of time.  It only takes one you to begin the fester and decay.  One to ruin such composed mindedness. Do you know what happens? Do you understand?  They'll whisper.  Just a few.

And then?

The four.

They know you're there and relishing in the thought of the feast to come.  Writhing in delight of the mire that will become of you. Only a whisper to warn you of such a racked fate.  Have you ever heard those whispers?

Rewind.  Recall.  You have.

It's absolute hysteria.

But it's none of their concern.  They have one conviction.  Dismantle, eradicate, cancel.

And it starts with a whisper, a confession.

Fear isn't an emotion to describe the severity of terror in that interval.

No, no noun could personify that panic.  I'm sure you've felt it.  The grip that demands your breath.  Holds onto your invocation and refuses to quell.

Anticipation forms barriers over logic this time.

Then, as all is a revelation, your portion is not exempt.

Unfortunately, Iranaeus interpreted incorrectly of your apocalypse.

Four damming portions revealed through seals lacerated by the Master.

Fist is innate battle; bleached, drenched, Apollyon's great inception.

The second promise of war, flush with hatred.

Third demands all, cued no strength in defense of your presence.

Fourth, khlôros, with its pale fingers outstretched, will clutch rightful judgement to your corpse.

The end all to all ends.  Three ratifications left to fracture.

In your own name, you'll witness floundering, as you perish into cipher, as well as others who thought they stood for substance.  Validity of nothing.

Only 144,000 left to your judgement as Hades smiles patiently with outstretched arms accepting your circumstances.

But, excepting your circumstances, the trumpets will judge for the flames.

PersonalMerek Davis