Forsaken Swine

Painted wings, eternal beauty, the angel of death propels the wind ahead. The scarab awakes. A mock calm, the fire bubbles, the scorpion scurries, the candle is snuffed out. The barbarious mercenaries reveal themselves. Their time has finally come. Escape is futile. An irritating itch breaks out over the mesmerisingly serene surface. The war cries blot the sky. They run, they sweep down, we hide. The trance is but an illusion. The drum beats are at its peak. Our hearts loose their rhythmic beat. The sprites have encamped themselves around us. They desire only our sanity. The beasts have expelled the army, we know it is time. The haunt of Belzeebub screeches across our open minds. The gnawing of our own tongues suprise us. We cannot stop. We are lost. There is no escape, the hope is only a figment of our imagination. We loose our imagination, the hour is bleak. He who is great wishes it. The sacrificial lamb. We hear voices, we give up our very souls for the mind of one man. There is no redemption. The omnipotent is just and kind. Swine they call us, never giving us our freedom. We look back and beyone the dead sea, the volcanic inferno beckons.