Hell's soiled feet tiptoe across the grandiose tile yet still, still, still you cannot see the marks left behind. Sooty ashes and sulfuric dust blending into dazzling patterns, even were it obvious you would turn your face, hide your eyes. 'Tis easier to glance upon the beauty than to oppose that which might mar your senses by its presence. I could have told you that the true darkness comes from running away. Run, you cursed fools, run into that which you fear. Run toward what frightens you, what you avoid, what you wish most to escape from. Embrace your darkness and there, there is where you will find your light.
Sifting through dust and ashes, the remnants of those who lost themselves to the depths of your solitude, never sang such a sweet song as the keening of love left behind. But what is love? Mere frivolity and lies, lies to the self to convince that we are not alone - yet all, we are all so utterly alone that the presence of another can never penetrate our scars and the faces we hide behind. So see, you never had need of another to fill your heart; your heart is full of demons and you are their master, dancing and prancing and pulling the strings, the master is the one controlled by his own puppets.
Grovel at the feet of excellence, churning within your maggot filled heart. Blood in the waters turns their crystalline beauty to dusky ochre, despoting its clarity with the poison created within your rotting husk. Selfish one, you see a soul and wish to crush its beauty, yet never have you faced wrath such as this. You will not be the victor of your own colosseum. The bloody moth shan't crumple in the heat of your flames. The ash which shall float across this earth's wind shall be that of your own, and when the bitterness of it falls upon the tongues of those who wander their singular thought of you will be to spit you out into the dirt from whence you came. You are your own cursed spite, and you belong in the dust; no, you belong so deeply below the sludgy caves that even Hell could never find your essence smeared across its walls.
Feel the insect crushed between your fingers, feel its hidden soul cry a lament, "No, it's not my time!" Recognize within it your own fear of mortality and the guilt carried within you of all the pain you bring to this divide. Crash upon your own shore, violently churn within yourself, beat against the stones in your heart as a wave of turbulence in a blackened storm. Strike yourself as lightning, hot searing pain brought upon your withered form. Truly you deserve it only by your thoughts of wishing it to be so. Deserving your own wrath was ever more sweet upon your tongue than that of being free.
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