?I can not die.? You will pass as a dream, and no more; you cannot love. And I am heartless, though it quivers still ? the last pulsings of a withering world left to its possession. You might have forgotten, but I never will. You will regret, you will regret; burn then in these moments of sacrilege, burn then in your sins forever. I will infect this world, it will be my presence in dreams, in nightmares. Your senseless abandon will not be my undoing. Love, and hatred, equally possessed him ? but not for his soul, which lingered the grasp of purgatory's hellish mouths and lapped the delicious black milk of his sufferings. Not his heart, for whose pulsing was horrific in its animalistic fever, derived ripping from the virulent pits of a seventh hell. But his entirety; yes, the essence of his being devoured the blushing vestal rose of love ? and from its thorns bled him his eternal loathing. His derision was a poison dripping from the glinting rise of his narrow fangs, their rows upon rows sharpened, shining. Knives glistening in their sadistic reign of blood and fury; a mouth of nails, a cavern of dissolve, and their mercy is unrest for their insatiable throne. His gaze is endless siege of dissension and despair, an unrelenting expanse that dared tread beyond madness in their sombre pry of flesh and bone; flesh and sweet marrow betwixt, for curve and sensuality there within his reach. His perversion is magnetism in his loveless mourning, his vengeance burns deeper than leagues of weary styx or the ache of its endless cry. Vicious, rampant being unhinged; rage courses his veins like a rapid drug, and his addictions deprive him of any desire for remorse. And his love ? his love, desecrated like a tomb bred filthy soils fit for his rot; his love is the machinations of his mind and body, and the fervent sins of his sick, black heart. A reckless devil spat from the infernos of his despotic communion, his restless demeanor is a dangerous dominion, a violence risen beyond grasp of morality. What was worst was his presence; his shadow, his awful contempt that swelled the walls of his crypt and exhausted a moan from its deep, dark valleys damp in the stalactite wounds of its cadaver. The crawl of flesh and filth hemorrhaging from the chill of his aversion like a torrent of lurching spiders, serpents, a smoke leeching the warmth from all that trespassed his solitude; his wrath is a perilous wreckage of a hideous delusion. His face is dark and hollow, a rasping smooth lake of wretched abandon whose waves coarsened the disheveled curve of his smirking lips and grinning teeth. He rested solemnly along the black shores of the ocean, seemingly molded from their sands a deity of chaos and contempt, bathed in the comfort of a cold starless night.

nameless his body wires with fluidity, power rippling from each gibbous thread of thew that so ornately decorates his abhorrent offering. rasping and despondent the asinine carving of flesh arouses his internal qualm, his aspiring damnation. languid and salacious were he, non but for one. the resounding memory of his dear madam thrumming in his head as a gentle spark. angry and belligerent against her wants, her carnal wishes he thrashes. slowly his temptation becomes more vivid, his anger more capably manifested. jaws gnash and tongue writhes in disgust, his positiong forfeited at the benefit of another, and it becomes at her side that he detests, it becomes at her side that he may not leave. pestered forever in an eternal embrace as her lying fingers would distastefully rummage through his o-too-lively corpse. bending to her forsaken will the wretched whore is none other than his love, his focus, his soul. and yet, how does one so admire that by which they pray to burn; it is, for he too, wishes to burn, wished to fall for his desecration, his disgusting exploitation. He faces his consequences, baring the cross by which burns him, the grotesque demon, and yet he knows not it is only the beginning of his unfathomable and eternal suffering. perhaps, though, he is not alone in his encumbering suffering. slimy and grotesque he protrudes from the shadows, the chirping of the lowly crickets all that destroys his well forged resonance. Silence, being his holy grail he says nothing to the nigrescent lad before him, says nothing to the despicable cretin existing non to far from him. His tail, o it sways, o it turns, much like that of an agitated feline and he watches, disturbs, and contemplates his actions before the feral snarl deep in his diaphragm is expulsed. raging fire, consuming smoke. his detestable frame rises in malignancy and nothing more than the imprudent wish to defy. you are but a man like me, and you lack the aptitude to bend me!

His, is a heart left to wander freely 'mongst the warrings of death and infamy, equally divine in their right possessed ? and collected within itself, silence collapsed its starvation, apathy rendering his compassion no more than a festering lust for blood and delicacy. True love is a dying breed. But hunger and dehydration prolonged the ache of his withering bones and gurgling core; a beast driven from Styx with a taste for salvation in the worst of ways. He cared not for remorse, not for mercy, not for his neighbor who intruded upon the night in such unmannerly rage. Only pleasure, in what means it brought its torment, in what means it lingered upon his lips peeling to reveal slick rows of weathered knives. His grin is viciously unappealing ? without comfort or civility, its cold glint is worn of its welcome and crooked as his disposition; bled of its wry humor even in the sharp of its salacious spread. Yet he seems comfortable in this disturbance, unmoved from the shores and dark waters that lap at his lenient body. There is something unnatural, irrevocable, something horrifically mundane about the nature of his being ? something that moves in him, in his eyes that commit a strange semblance to an unsettling rest. Something dead, something in misery that compels his body by spell and doom to intimate the thrusting knots of his thick muscle and lean thews. Living dead, the romance of his wretched grace, an animated fiend of wrath and beauty infinite ? til the end demeans his ashes and delivers from them a new anathema. ?If you're expecting apprehension I'm afraid you'll be disappointed.? his voice smooths over the peeled exposition of his sneering jaws, lacquered low drone that submits coldly in the midst of the sullen eve.

the demon thrives on the indifference given unto him. he loathes silence as much as he resides in it, he loves chaos, is drawn to it as one is pulled into a lover's embrace. the dark prince, so self-absorbed, so focused on his own standing. He is a king, he is an arch-angel, and he does not play well with others. nameless eyes of lucent are finally found, black as the abyss, and the devil falls silent, falls short of things to say, and can admit that his envy is remarkable. such intensity, such indifference, and yet there is an edge he can not begin to touch. or can he? ivories dream of sinking into the man's flesh, of ridding the damned world of one so righteous to all that he would hold dear, but non, he does not aim to go forward, does not choose to wreak havoc now. there is no war to be fought, albeit his internal battles, "I'm always disappointed," he hisses, the words jumping from his throat, smothering the atmosphere in which he crafted, "You alter my perception of things none," and now he dares, so quickly, to move towards his opponent. For, as it would seem, Syrinx is not the level-headed one in the equation, and so willingly elects Lucent as the ambassador of the situation. he halts non to far from the man, his hot breath painting the air, his saliva falling in heavy wetness to the ground, "What does this place hold for you?" Alacritis was his, everything was his, possession was formidable within' his mind.

Seduced by the chill that settled between them, there is an unsteady calm that quells his bones to ache and persist; Lucent is the tyrant of his solemn business, an omnipresent nightmare that harrows upon the border of reality in reckless dissent. His existence is but a dream ? a gasping intimacy that retches its volatile passion in ruining his past, a vagrant anatomy in its handsome menagerie of chiseled bone and fibrous flesh. He rises quietly from his den of shadows, dripping from him the black waters and shards from their obsidian shore to turn his amusement toward his amiable transient, listening quietly in a pretense of piquancy. Wry, and delivered from his humor by this man's philosophy, a smile cracked along the dry length of his ravenous jaws, a chuckle rolling from the reaches of his shuddering lungs. His design is twisted, rippling; a mesh of reptilian coil and vicious latency that composes an intensity to his musculature, brusque and long in its lean physique. There is an overwhelming sense of devilry to his actions, to his expressions ? a sultry appetite for sin and indulgence that is a resident to his entirety. It does not move, an intangible force that is grounded even in the face of desperation, as he is approached by his hostile companion. War is his most parched thirst. But it is in being questioned that his smile dissipates, relinquishing his neutrality in the possession of his wildest cruelty. It was his memories that collected to answer such a question; it were his dreams and hallucinations that suddenly gathered in the crook of his mind. Because he could not forget what he was after, no matter how many nights could be spent in warmth and desire. Could not forget her face, her eyes, the haunt that preceded his tameless ferocity. ?Nothing.? his voice intercepts ? a rough, throttling baritone that slices the cold air between them as his visitor intrudes. His voice is as chilled as steel, and twice as sharp in its assertive blow; his eyes narrowed upon syrinx in a speculative glance that lacked all extent of warmth. His hackles had raised, a river of black spines that drew along the length of his vertebrae, and his eyes swarmed with a violence that devoured his being, his shoulders squared. Yet he is eased in silence that bears upon the moment, recollecting in a steady wane as his memories ceased to flare and reminisce upon his sorrow. ?I conquer what I desire. This place will not move me any more than that which I pursue. Only satisfaction will be my death.?