Harrolds. Arcons. Three.

Thus, Thee, We.

Twelve, violent order,

Bound savagery.

The gloved maul.

Nine, bright against the black.

End of all dark.

Nito, youngest of the Nine.

Last, greatest calamity.

Much turned.

His hue, the hierarchy of heavens.

The madstar.

Dor, first of the Nine.

Bereaver, breaft, bearer of corpses.

He stands now,

At the beginning of endings;

The black star.

Ghosts?

More dead.

Black shapes

in the divide

of afters.

Tectonic plates

of intelligent horror—

That must be made

to be content.

Wielders of

wide, terrible lears,

sacrum

all the way down.

Desperate echoes

In the ether,

whispers

of nameless

Fear.

Wrongful prisoner,

unleases righteous vengeance.

That hate born from cruelty

might sustain and exceed itself over time.

And then not only be released,

but create moral allowance for horror.

I'll live no longer on my knees.

Crying down to my maligned heart,

I promise you—

I've rid myself of thieves.

Clean hot carbon.

I am scourd,

I am new again.

I would rather sear than spoil—

a clean, bright death.

In that red,

all things are mutable,

the iron glows with hot movement.

I fear much,

but not the flame.

I understand the flame,

I respect the flame.

It does not consume,

it transforms.

Not death,

but new life.

Heat death.

Idiotic.

What is one heat,

but henosis?

She is master of lost dogs,

old wounds sealed with soft light,

champion of feral minds.

None are lost within her sight.

Leeping from night,

to find my mother's neck,

a proud raptor,

perched atop it's quarry.

All long dark lines and sharp points against the moonlight.

It dove away again, in an elegant black blur.

Taking some important bits of her throat with it—

a spurt of gore,

a valiant but failed

effort to stand.

It gave death

like a parlor trick,

something it was proud to hone

for honing’s sake.

It didn’t need to kill,

just liked to.

Old horrors buried in the dark.

Likely as not,

the worst of us never had names.

No wonder I never heard of something like this—

who the hell was left to tell it?

Hell is a reptilian pupil,

a slanted door to dark.

Even light cannot escape—

that's what they say, right?

I always hated snakes,

in goddamn capable of fighting fair.

In my youth, one lay

at the foot of my father's stairs.

I keep throwing hammers at it,

but the fuckin thing won't die.