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Here he comes, oiling up out of the shadows. Window-pane grids of dying sunlight throw darkness in the corners, giving him fuel until the strength of night allows him to fully awaken.
A tarry, licorice backbone with a hostile sharpness. Long fingers on the end of thin, dangling arms, muscles carved from black maple. He is the scythe that walks. The black eyes of a deer glitter wetly in the panther-velvet skin of his face. Even his teeth are black.
He has the long reach of extendable hope from the other side. Back to the ceiling, palms on the walls. He’s an indoor gargoyle hustling the corners into shapes. He breathes in the obsidian air and hugs the evening close.
The ebony flecks of his fingernails glint flatly as the moon rises. Cords of jet muscle wrap the profane engine of his soul. There’s a yawn from the corner that mimics a terrifying snarl from a darker place, a pre-human place.
He is older. He is the anti-god. The other. To some he is the devil. To some he is the boogeyman. To some, he is simply The Bad Guy. He has been given many names and accepted none.
Long, fat tendrils of dark smoke curl around his form now as the sun, defeated, slinks beneath the hills and skyline. He follows the meridian of darkness in its circle around the globe. He is made of night-time secrets that are taken to the grave.
He stretches, dripping down to the floor and standing up straight like a dancer. He parts the air like a shark’s fin parts the ocean. His thoughts broadcast into weak and strong minds alike.
He walks forward into the night, dodging any light. He is never seen. He fans the urges that damn us.
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A tarry, licorice backbone with a hostile sharpness. Long fingers on the end of thin, dangling arms, muscles carved from black maple. He is the scythe that walks. The black eyes of a deer glitter wetly in the panther-velvet skin of his face. Even his teeth are black.
He has the long reach of extendable hope from the other side. Back to the ceiling, palms on the walls. He’s an indoor gargoyle hustling the corners into shapes. He breathes in the obsidian air and hugs the evening close.
The ebony flecks of his fingernails glint flatly as the moon rises. Cords of jet muscle wrap the profane engine of his soul. There’s a yawn from the corner that mimics a terrifying snarl from a darker place, a pre-human place.
He is older. He is the anti-god. The other. To some he is the devil. To some he is the boogeyman. To some, he is simply The Bad Guy. He has been given many names and accepted none.
Long, fat tendrils of dark smoke curl around his form now as the sun, defeated, slinks beneath the hills and skyline. He follows the meridian of darkness in its circle around the globe. He is made of night-time secrets that are taken to the grave.
He stretches, dripping down to the floor and standing up straight like a dancer. He parts the air like a shark’s fin parts the ocean. His thoughts broadcast into weak and strong minds alike.
He walks forward into the night, dodging any light. He is never seen. He fans the urges that damn us.
tags