I AM WALKING DEATH AND THE HAND OF SATAN

250px-Mountain_Fire_Lookout_Tower_above_forest

I remembered the cast of the sky on that early evening, pre-twilight, when you looked upward at the clouds, watching the ostentation of the sun’s slowly failing light creating intricacies of hue and texture as it filtered through them.

I recall with even greater clarity bringing you down into the filth of night, into a land of sweat, poisonous insects and summer beyond the forest lands where the sentinel towers reside to a place where mornings came bleak, horrific and woven with artifice and malice at the sound of the cockerel’s crow, the sound of treason.

Now when I consider the sophisticated propulsion-driven machines of death that are forged in your land I feel unrequited – so I fill my mind instead with visions of ripping the limbs off children almost with the ease that those of that demographic might remove the limbs of an arachnid.

I am walking death and the hand of Satan.

Advertisements