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No glares of missing eyes, just the one, at the center that soars high. Mst of all. It fles, careless and free. It’s hands pills precious wine, as it recites poetry about the end times. Conjure up as emotions of failures and shame, meet within. Not million, in fact in the billions dismissed the thought of arrival. Shutter in fear and weep to each word spoken, in that poem, that recites, in every detail, how your life will end. It’s tongue, doesn’t skip a beat, rhymes perfectly, in every human tongue. Though it’s a tyrant, some have complete devotion to such creature, redish aura over a dark shape. The eagles seem to cry. Rats and cats run to it, to pay their own homage. Fogs and dogs, mist and a devilishly ******* smell. Pigs talk and end up screaming about sacrifice. Such is early talks, of such end times. Prone to sudden fits of rage, wearing cold ****** to the creature, is as natural to him, as breathing is to you. Gold, *** with virgins, praises will be used, more valuable to what had just been written, one’s own soul, nothing in this life is free, everyone was given life, despite never asking for it. Master of famine, king and queen to poverty, dreamer user, inventor and distributor of disease. When voted in men and women give in, trenches of brave people, rage war, knowing privately they’ll fail. Still they try. No one is truly pious, it will take more than forever to master that trait and so very few are blessed with immorality. This creature has the attributes of a supreme leader, just without its own kingdom. For in no dogma, no myth, no whispers of physical storytelling knows of such creature, no prophecy, nothing, not even in Nostradamus. Endless it seems, for it walked to the horizon and back, perhaps it comes from the other side of the moon. Trembling slaves in chant in joy, from learnt pleasure and addicted to a self-produced evil, after so much, they grow to love, follow the creature, sweeping down to help. Fine, call it demons if you must, for most, that's the best their own imagination can conceptualize. People are their prized pleasures to take with them and eventually turn into them. Lust can be good. We’ve got something inherent in us and encourages us to be a bit more carnel, sinful, selfish and so on. Most just keep it a bit better kept, inside the privacy of their own home. After-all, in a democratic system, ****** got vote in. not in vain read this, do not concern yourself from where, how or why I write this. Death will come, the end of the world will come, just ask yourself, what will come first? Work for everything, but cherish nothing. In the transition, you’ll never be permitted to take anything with you. Just your soul to what makes you good and your sins to which you've committed, and will atone for at gunpoint. When you hear your fate, life will either be a total blessing or something completely unjust. Both will last forever after death or the end times. Solemn. Poets, be master of your word, painters, be master of your strokes, musicians, be master of each note. Do not live in angst people, life will be better before this time, without anxiety, at least some joy will be experienced and not something to be yearning for. Wild beasts will come and **** your first daughter and chop off the private of your first born. Without a care and it’s master will teach them how. Humanity is only a glint. One glint. Like a star. Pretty from a distant, something to philosophize over, than learn, but close at face sight, the star is already dead. Whoever said the struggle will stop today? A-lot of Mystics dead and never to be martyred. Plus, you don’t have any gold to give away, so you can remove your past. Underslung sky, now is not the time for fear, that comes later. Desolate intense resent nothing at the same time of everything. Bloated with both virtue and lust. Malice. For life wanted melody, instead, people got malady. The creature stepping over earth's land, people run, as that very military shoots and ending fail. It’s not monster film. People run, some stop to pay homage and offer their souls, as the so called demons **** them up, those people turn to sin and **** in **** form and iron race, become. For some, if they’re going to be talented, it’s far better to be such of someone in great fame, to things they've always wanted to do to one another. Most people die. The creature sets up camp, Astana. Takeover and demands complete and whole obedience. Holy books burn. Slaves for the rest still living, though mostly dark ashes fall from the sky, grey colour themes, burning bodies left on the ground and homeless children asking for their mothers walk, all people see is their personal fear. Lukewarm life is at best. Daring not to live anymore or any better. Once a servant to one's life, now just a servant to dying days. Violet in all violence. Voiceless tears inside interior chambers, cry private prays, not even confessing to one another, muted silence between people, saturate this earth. Marching to Zion, they’ve given up. And no network of hope or revolt. In harmony, all remaining poets weep at a blanket and shared evil, that everyone is experiencing under this rule. To the police, in tempest wrath, those demons that tagged along. This is a neo-empire outshining those before. It’s a shame that stupidity isn’t painful to one’s whole entire essence. Wanting avator’s. Getting none. Over a thousand year period, lavish pillars rise, it’s that humanity forgot about the godhead-figure, they simply forget. New omens provide a new scent for earth. Astana remains the capital of earth. With different races of tiled skin, phishing tongues, tall, green. Peoples private hell is prolonged. The rich **** any animal and tear off their skin, use it as fur coats, they smile. So let’s take a trip, where anyone can **** limp, ******* in public and spend money on any mofoe. Getting lonely, I can’t control it, pass me the blunt, let me roll it. Perhaps it;s doubt in anything that will bring pain, not knowing the truth that I had been hoping for to bring me freedom. Supreme leader is now the title of the creature. And everywhere he goes, are ****** ******, both men and women, preferably if they were under the age of sixteen. Because they haven’t been broken. With no floods, no locus, some disease, ****** became normal and a bit of ****. No money, a lot of silver, a neo royalty line is produced amongst people’s blood, the half cast between those demons and virgins, both male and female. Swallowing eternity. As any prince would laugh. Though from the sky, the earth is drowsed with new philosophy. In textile fields, elderly women tend to those fields, all missing one eye and stuck in old age forever. As young boys run naked around neo palace’s. Just only entertainment. Writers invent new tragedy stories, abated pale, blue and pure. Misting stageplays for giggles and laughing till it hurts in the stomach that encourages everyone who watches to give into lust. Like we’re all meant to do. Along watery plateau, different breed of Mystics walk, those born in the world before that survived the initial stages, ate eagle eyes and living now, until time decides to stop mocking everyone and finally give up and provide the final solution. Under red dusk, those know most things are propaganda, freedom inside someone’s *******. ***** everywhere. Like steam leaking from any paved roads and newly built cities. Images strung from the air that remind people, peasants too be honest, that we all can die. Disc of time. Burnt colours. Nothing said about hope, love and romance. No weddings. As for babies, they pop up at random places, roads, dumpsters, fields with goats, public toilets and the nile. To whoever finds them first, by law they are the new parents. **** is punishment if those do not take the babies. **** kittens. Rereading of Ovid. Talk of having Latin as one language, going beyond this world. And Helen is her name. Streams of Blood. Phinx is his name. My king, my queen. What tears can bore? The dooming death and nothing forces us to change or to know, nothing greater than pain. Bore. shame and exile to those who age. Life is not for them to claim, old-fashioned school of thought, doub their words. Until a neo-poet rises from the ash below, drops of stars and Lions stand on their tongue, not from wrestling but out of respect, breed of new prophet in these times of neo-dogma. Revolt personally as a single person in revolution. People to pray to this poet as they write words on the second renaissance, where only those born to create great works of beauty to walk this earth, like Monks in a monastery. At the moment, until it defeats the creature, monster to any god, it's only a moment or glimmer of hope. One hero, born under one tree. Weaving thoughts of romance, soulmate to those with intelligence, poetic to the poor and match to one only, no-one else. Most of all, birthing life for those who deserve it.
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