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abyss

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Scorching out thine sovereignty.
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┏------------༻|-|༺------------┓
Scorching out thine sovereignty.
┗------------༻|-|༺------------┛

查看更多信息

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Notes:

Womb of War.

Death is an art.
Blade met blade in a duet of the highest gamble, the orchestra of war enveloping the open fields.
Each swing met by another, each breath savoured like the dew of early morning, awaiting the flood of release.
Some preach freedom is what keeps them afloat, while others deem it to be duty.
Liars.
The lot of them.
There is only one true purpose that bestows itself unto warriors, and it’s to dance the dance of death, or die trying.
The sun had baked the land, its artery lay severed across the horizon, soaking and staining the distant lands in crimson along a featureless sky.
The universe wept in penance for a sin unbeknownst, yet amidst the tapestry of guts lay a small child, wailing in cradled hands that had no more love to spare.
Warmth had been sucked by the vacuum of annihilation, and the mother’s unblinking eyes bore silent witness to the crime.
The moon struggled to climb as clouds gathered, the sky itself turning its head.
Under its light, the decay of flesh brought swarms of flies, darting this way and that, all attendees of a banquet most benevolent, landing and devouring sticky wounds.
One more disturbed the field, not on wings but on heavy boots.
He strode through the defiled land, imprinting the mud as he went.
He passed the baby and its dead mother, before stopping, turning.
He peered down at the baby, who stared back up at him with absent eyes.
The baby clung to its mother, flies claimed the corpse as their own, crashing down in waves.
A particularly bold fly entered the mouth of the baby, yet it was spat out and sent tumbling down in an uncoordinated spiral.
The baby grabbed at it with one hand desperately, squishing it into a mess of juice and saliva.
The man knelt down, staining his knees as he placed his begrimed hands under the baby’s arms, lifting him out of his mother’s clutches.

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