Shadowy evil infects the immeasurable petrified monoliths of the city of sinners.
Worshippers of pain swarm amongst the condemned souls of annihilated hopes.
Cimmerian clouds of providence,
evoked by countless unmentionables,
fissured the Elysian fields,
led by six hundred, three score and six ravens
seeking the unspoken portals of the foul prison of lies.
And he was here also.
Once a man, now all fragments of humanity have forsaken his putrid spirit,
for he is a fallen angel.
Infrequently cognisant of the nightmare circle he steps,
lingering in his own unsated imagination,
for he is a creator.
The preordained karma of all is enslaved in his nightmares,
and he wages the ineffable war of uncreation
against the broken threads of the web of reality itself.
He will win.
Existing only to sate his desires,
carelessly he rules and dominates all,
respecting nothing, for nobody can compare to his awesome integrity,
and his shadow is already departed.
Loving only the pain and emptiness of the surreal backwaters of depression,
laughing, his convoluted sense of humour appreciating
the unfeeling dance of his puppets,
they cognise not of his hegemony or intentions,
to him they are useful,
but their lives matter not to him.
He has many puppets.
Biding his time, waiting oh so sedulously for the perfect moment,
whence he will unveil his true tainted nature to the audience,
procuring his conclusive confident commandment
to transcend himself into the black martyr to pain.
The shadow of his irrationality lingering unchangingly in this cruel dark loveless prison.
He is nowhere.
Mark Snellgrove
Friday 13th September 1996