a collection of sorts

Gods - Circling gods, akin to ravens, bring a song of shivering pride. Blackened skies closing in, time drawing thin as a maidens hair. The endless plains captivate man to ride to his end as he has so often. A joker pulled from the deck of cards, or is it the king of hearts. It only states “Hierarch” and foreshadows the fortune of mans creation. Alone the red thread of prophecy encapsulates this single card with such intimacy as to make the two inseparable in their nature. Is there a greater metaphor?

Ray - Angels spiral above him dancing in the light of the sun. Trumpets sound with grand rejoice stiffening out the wails of the falling. He stares quietly watching the contrived festival as spears penetrate the flesh finding the breast each time and blood flows like the River Styx it’s red tendrils enveloping the barren ground. Shrieks squeal from grand amalgamation of metal and concrete once thought eternal and invincible as their brutal glory fades in seconds of heavenly fire. The man cannot bring himself to pray nor does he call to a god as he falls to his knees tears evaporated by waves of immense heat. He looks up once more with his last breath gazing past the dancing angels and falling stars towards the sun where behind the glorious light a small but yet all so great ray emerges green as the brightest emerald. Upon the ray the man fixates as his skin boils and eyes melt holding onto the beautiful rune in his mind as his vision fades. A last thought passes the mind of the man, At least he did not die alone.

Withered plants - Long grasses grow the rhymes and spells from my mind. Sprouting flowers and seeds, deeds of men and promises of gods. But all of these flowers are withered, each grass collapsing slowly in on itself lifeless, dead as a cold body thrown into the river Styx never to return. But yet there remains life in these fading roots, as the heel of Achilles dipped into the waters of death maintained his life. Maybe yet there remains a seed in the midst of these dying flowers that can bring back their glory and beauty, maybe the forest can burn and then erect a new visage, a new man, a new idea, a new world. This is my last prayer, this is gods dying wish.

Swans - I see them so clearly, the swans of the apocalypse. My mind cannot wander from their gentle but eerie forms, white glowing feathers overtaking - conquering - the darkened skies. Oh birds of the last day come to me, approach me - with all of your wonder and beauty. Grant upon me your deafening sigh, bring to me your purest kin. So clear are they now standing tall in the light of the moon casting upon my vision their arch like forms of pure white reflecting the moonlight. Oh I see them now the swans of the apocalypse.

Longinus - The dark clouds gather blocking out the fading sun’s light as black ravens fly surrounding the corpse. A crown of thorns still makes its imprint upon the cold body from which blood still slowly drips unto the sacred ground. The howl of a wolf sounds in the distance echoing with eerie and disturbed melody. The centurion stands with orderly formation as if partaking in rank his spear bloodied at the tip, Longinus stares out upon the dead god his eyes partaking a fiery gaze. The figure in a sturdy motion thrusts his spear into the soil and mutters in a hushed tone “Until we meet again.” as he turns his back to the corpse.