Post by Ranjit on Aug 13, 2007 13:04:46 GMT -5
As lonely as a poet on the wall of Jericho[/b]
Or the moon without the comfort of the stars
I am loathe to know it that a man without a soul
Is nothing but a split canopic jar
The wind was like a whispering voice, murmuring its way through the empty, seemingly endless trails that led down into the abyss of Hell. It rattled the prickling bushes that lay along along the trails, like an outline of them. The light of a wire-thin crescent moon lit the path so that it was only semi-seeable in the everlasting darkness on the way to the demon's pit. The soft wind lifted itself to a gentle, caressing breeze, like the touch of a lover's fingertips. And just like that, like the snap of God's fingers, it died.
I proved it, improved it
Drove a sonnet right through it
And in this state of bliss
Evil kissed with wet lips
Pen-filled fingertips
Which drew me, for through me
Illuminati usually pissed
But with words of some hurts worth
I threw a party that extended God’s list
Uncaring of the wind's troubles, the crow-hued stallion made his way down the trails. Indeed, he looked as if he belonged in the pits of Hell, standing along side Satan himself. Mane and tail the hue of dried blood mixed with oil floated along with his steps; red eyes like bloodstone jewels gleamed out of the darkness; ebonite pelt rippled with every stride, with every movement, the hard muscles underneath the fur and skin flexing as he walked. As the diamond hard hooves struck the sod, loose pebbles and dirt shivered, as though they were live things fearing of being stepped on.
Exciting new flames that my fame would claim for me
Reciting back the almanac of travesties
They call me bad
Mad Caliban with manner
Dangerous to know
A passing fad
Taught in all debauch
In excess and in canto
The stud flicked his head slightly, tossing his messy tresses out of his face. On the right side of his thick neck was a symbol hued like blood. It was a pentagram, with two rounded edges at the top; this was enclosed by a circle. It was his birthmark. And yet, it was not his sole marking on a pelt so dark it seemed to swallow everything else up. On his left hind leg there was a stunningly splash of red. Another mark of birth.
Grown wild this child
Whole harems defiled
Faustina’s and Mina’s
Lady Libertine and her sisters between her
What spread of lies arise when lovers die
Which circle of hell is mine when I arrive?
Those massive cannons continued on their way down, moving his massive frame downward, deper into the ravine. He seemed amazingly calm, even though one single mistake, one misstep, one wrong move, would send his spiraling to his death, body pierced, perhaps, by rocks that lay, waiting, at the bottom? But then, who knew? They may not be rocks. The hessian suddenly smiled, lips curling slightly to reveal his teeth. Bloodstained and slightly sharper than a normal horse's square-like teeth. He still retained some of his demonic features.
They call me bad
Mad Caliban with manners
Dangerous to know
A passing fad
Taught in all debauch
Crow against the virgin snow
The wicked smile slid away, features once more lost to the darkness as the moon's lunar hue was cast behind a shadow, pushed away, shunned. The crow-hued one snorted, breath showing slightly in the chill of autumn night. Suddenly, he slipped, right fore leg loosing its grip. He would have fallen to his doom had he not leapt back, ears laced against his skull, maw open. The stud flung his head up, gleaming, cruel eyes one the moon as he waited, willing to let the lunar orb reappear before continuing his deadly trek down the rocky-ridden trails to the pits of Hell.
Grown colder, my shoulder
Like a boulder beside her
And bolder, not wiser
My dark seed took up root inside her
That mouldered, where older
Beddings would hold a passionate sigh
But laudanum and soda
Lord Numb coda
Merited a forest of inherited spite
The thin, wispy clouds that he been veiling Luna's pale visage slid away from her, revealing her in all her glory. She smiled-not literally, of course- down upon Palame Ravine, casting light for the black-heart Score stud to see by. The same stallion cast the lunar orb a cruel smiled, and once ore began picking his way downward. The ever moving red-black tresses fell into his features, hiding the gleaming eyes for a few moments, only to be tossed aside as though it was a troublesome foal. The hessian knew this was no time for his messy vines to be getting in his face.
Fleeing grief for foreign maps
I still played vampire aristocrat
Unloading my gun in hot, promiscuous laps
Then shooting swans in a gondola
I tripped my foot on a fallen star
And there’s nothing like a mouthful of Venetian tar
To let you know just who you fucking are!
Finally, he stood upon solid ground, ground that would not break off under his hooves, ground that would not send him plummeting to his death. Solid, unmoving ground. Large ears flicked back and forth, listening carefully; faintly, as if it was a long ways off, came the sound of slowly moving water. It was sluggish sounding. The stallion did not go to it though. He could see rather well, but he was taking no chances. Nares flared, showing salmon hued innards, taking oxygen into to a huge pair of lungs. The air, the stud noted, was clean of other horses. This land, the King's land, was unclaimed and seemed to have been that way for a very long time.
The patron saint of heartache
You can't see my world is falling
The world is falling down
The patron saint of heartache
Can't see the world is falling
My world is falling down
Ever after, can they hear my laughter?
The patron saint of heartache
Never craft a better bed of disaster...
The patron saint of heartache
A crack alerted the stud. His heavy head whipped around, messy vines lashing his thick name. He could scent the rank smell of some predator, lurking in the bushes. Clearly, whatever was there thought it could make an easy meal out of the stud. Teeth bared in a sick smile, the hessian backed into the darkness, watching as a lone wolf, larger than most, slunk forward, its black nose sniffing, ever sniffing, searching for a meal.
They call me bad
Made Caliban with manners
Dangerous to know
A passing fad
Taught in all debauch
In excess and in canto
'Begone, canine, there is no meal for you here.' the demonic stud hissed suddenly, his voice a rasp, as though something had scratched his throat, and terribly so. He moved forward, and in the silver light, he looked the part of a demon from Hell. Fitting, in a territory such as this, where the Luce murmured rumors of the deadly trails leading down into Satan's lair. Blood red voids flashed in fury as he watched the wolf, which crouched in fear looking at the huge horse before him. 'I said begone! Before I make a meal of you.' the stud hissed, lowering his voice rather than raising it. Twas rare that he shouted.
They call me bad
Mad Caliban with manners
Dangerous to know
A passing fad
Whereupon I tell them
To go fuck their mothers
As so...
On my grave
Tail tucked 'tween its legs, the wolf fled, fearing the creature in the ravine. The hessian watched it, visage expressionless, ears back against his skull, red-black mane and tail flowing in the slight breeze. As soon as the wolf had gotten out of sight, the stallion turned and looked around, examining the area carefully. Once more he scented it before letting a single, hissed word escape from his chasm. 'Mine.'
((-cackles- Yeah, okay so, I was clearly going to do it, but yeah, I think Bef has to accept me as the Score King xD Pfft, BEFERA!! Oh, open, cause it can be replied to. I'm not sure how, but yeah. Open. Anything shorter by two paragraphs will be ignored xDD Oh yeahh, Ranjit's new 'title' is the patron saint of heartache', hence the smexy title. Song lyrics (C) to Cradle of Filth. Taken from The Byronic Man. Bolded stuff is Ville Valo singing xD))
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