: : : <<<-------< Black <-----------------((o))-----------------> Arrows >------->>> : : :
The Bone Collector
of the Nest .
Feeder and Protector....
.jpg)
For a long time
Laboriously gathered
At the river's lapping edge
Memories made material of
Sacrificial bone to the altar of Greed
instead of need...
- too long
The Bones were found
as the bones found me.
The omen was clear
A truth was near… an apocalypse in the
making
A Balance in the breaking
Opens
a Portal through Solid.
“ In the depths of the damp and crumbling
concrete cavern-system
that has been my lair of the last 9 months
a Chimera Creature was gestating.... "
" Feeding on the brown-water-polished
bones
of animals
sacrificed without restraint
to the voracious appetite of urban
humanoids. "
"Heavy bag-fulls of them I had to scavenge, devoutly from
the dirty river banks nearby
to keep it fed and satiated.
And it grew strong...
And it grew wise
and graceful.
And under one dark new moon of April, the portal-year of 2020
when the veil between the worlds was thin
It began to stir....
On the air it would learn to slither and glide preferring always
to stick to the Shadows,
for its truth was too heavy
for the Light to bare.
Soon
It will sing its song to you and tell its story.
The story of all Life
sacrificed to Other Life
whether by its own Will or that of another... “
RrrrRrrrattleSssssSssnake Invokes Chimera....
.
.
.
The Dragon force of undead Creatures
Bound together by
the threads of fate
and memory
A Chimera
Slithers out of murky waters
into the corners of your mind
unwinds…
the rusted tendrils
of thoughts-like flight
but long since smothered, by the might
of a Monsto-City beyond your reach
yet absolute in its rolling might…
Mindlessly deciding your fate
and the fate of so many
- for far too long.
.
.
.
̡̡̧̛̛̞̜̱̘̟͕̬̙͉͔̞̟͓͚͙̙͎̮̞̭̯̭̀̇̾̃̄̍͊̑̀̓͒̐̇̇̈̄̔͆́̃̂͘̕͘͜͝ͅ ̧̡̡̡̛͓̠͇̩̦̳̜̬̦͇͕͓͉̮̼̠͚͚͇̟͍̭͈̳̼̞͇̱͑̔̅̎͗̈́̆̐̓̌̎͆͊͗́͒̒̊̇̓́̄̅͊͑́̆̃̿͐͗̕͜͟͟͢͡͞͝ ͕͍̓̽̚ͅ ̢̡̡̻̭̝͓̦̲̼̩̺̩̮̤̖̩̹͎̣͍͓̯̋̉̀͒͒̆̄̅̇̓͋̉̾̒̑͑͌̂̊̀͛̂͘͝͡ͅͅ ̡̢̙̭͚̜͖̦͈͕̼̯̞̰͙̫̳͉͔̘̭̲͍͕̄́͐͆̀̿̊̿̓͌̂̽̓̀̆͊̐̌̿̔̕̚̕͘͜͜͡͞ ̧̡̧̨̛̛̲͖̳̯̭̱̱͕̫͖̝̜̱͍̳̭̟̭̝͈̬̣̜̰̲̮̝̙̪̖̤̲̹̱̰̯̰͕̫̮̟̙͔͈̄̒̎͊́̌̔͛́̃̐͊̓̌̍̑͆̎̀͊͒̀̏͋̿̃͊̑́̔͊̐͗́̌́̿͑͗͗́̕̚̚͠͡͠ͅ_̡̛̜̜͕̠̻͙̞̙͚̩̦̞̫̩̯̰̤͉̺̝̤͈̮̙͍͖̞͕͍̗̞̟̋̉̀̎̽̌̿̈̐̇̔̈̿̐̈́̇̽͋̐̓̐̓͒́͆̾̋́̆͒̈́̿͘̕̚͢͜͞ͅͅ_̡̡̛̛̗̪̖̫̩̮̞̹̖͓͕͓̰̤͍̖̟̹̖̟̗̯̥͚͉̜̼͔̖͈͎͓̼̘̃͗̍̀̑͛̇͌͐́̏̈́͋̄̊͋̿́͗̇̀̊͌̈̓͌̏̽̋͛̽̏̇́͘͟͟͟͞͞͡͝ͅͅ_̧̝̠̹͉̺̠̮̫̼̘͈̠̙̜̲̙̥̬̖̟̠͖̞͇̩̤̰̗̞͔͕͈̞͖̘̹̮̮͓̲̄̍̎̊̓́̈́͌̋͊͗̎̿͋̀̃̓̏̽͛̄͂̔͑̍͒͌̉̆̉̋͐̓͌̂̒͛̑̇̾͐͘̚͢ͅ_̡͎̗̦͉̳̠̳̳̺͎̀̍́̆̿̇͋̍̌̊̕_̹̣̞̼͍͈͋̓̾̈́͠͞_̡̨̧̯̘͚̖̘̣̞̟̠̟͈͚̠̺̝̯̤̺͎̙̲͚̰̤̬͎̰͎̱̥̐́͗͛̏͛͗̍͂̓̑̆̿̀̍̉̍͗͂̎͒͑́̋̐̆̎̔̇͊̓̂̀͑̕̕͜͟͟͞ͅ_̧̛̟̱̫͉͉̜̫͎̟̞̪͔͈̤͚̼̟̠̞͙̦̖̲̫͇̿́͊̈́̄̀̒͒̀̐̈́̅̃̐̒̐̾̌̊̈̄͗̓̂̀͘̕͢͢͢͠_̧̨̛̛̳̗̟͇͍͍̹͈̭̲̖̟͖̈́̓̈̊̃̀͋́͆́̓͗̄̕̚̕͟͢͞ͅͅ_̢̡̢̡̧̛̥͍̹̖̜̝̤̝̫͕̱̺̖̜̖̰̺̪̠̮̠̩͎̬̯͎͇̬̟̲̠̳̫̫̮̰̦͙͛͌͐̂́̑͛̄̅͑̑̑̒͐̋̀͐̀̆͛͑͊͗́͐̋͋̀̊͌̌̆̀̅̽̈̑͋͑̽̚͢͜͜͠͞͞͠͞͡ͅͅĄ̨̮̤̠͔̭͉̱̱̲̥̙͎͍̈͒͌̌͑̄̂̃̓̈̀̕͡͠͡ ̢̧̧̧̛͕͇̮̗̘̬̥̳̯͚͉̯̫̣̫̼̼̑͑͊̊̐͑̍̄̄̍̀̏̿̈́͂͆͘͘̕͟͝͡ ̢̡̧̡̨̺̹̫͎͍͉̫̺̦̺̠̲͙̥̬͎͇̖̹̲̳̭͎̯̫̗͍͚̦͇̱̻̪̰͚̈̂̽̋̂̇̎̽̓͗͑̈̄̏̾̂͂̋͑̎͒͛̇̅̊͌̑́͗͊͆̈͋̎̆̅̒̌̕͘̕̕̕͟͟͢͜͟͞͡C̡̨̢̡̡̛̛̗̺̳̳͚̘̮̟̘̺͚͈͔̪͕̫̜͇̜͚͎̪̗͖̣̭̲̘̮͇̟̝̹̠̗̰͚̹̺̘̞͎̖̬͗͛̀̂̆̅͌͑͒̅́̈̈͂͑̀̆̂̀̏̆̊̈́̈̽̉͋̇̒̍̄͑͌̍̐̆̀̀̑͒͂̇͊̚͘̕͟͢͜͝͞͡͝͡ͅō̡̦̩͉̮̰̞̗̝͙̟̞̭̥͚͎̪̟͎̲͍̝̱͍̭̩̗̠͉̣̘͖͚̮̱͖͎̲̼̖͉̪͙̒́̀͌̾̈́̽͛̌͛̇͋̋̿̒̊̒̉͌̓̔̇̀̑́̽̈́͗̈́̓̒͛̋͋̋̃͂̀́͋̂̔͘̚͟͜͜͜͟͟͞͝͝͞͝͞ͅͅͅn̨̖͔̹͈̗͚̠͈̗̬̪̹͖̥͒͌̎̄̅͂́̑͑̀͋̐̈́͘͞S̙̩̻̑̿͊ě͙̥͕̬̥͔̖͓͙̖̙̙̘̫͈͋͂̃́̈́͆̑͌̋͐̓͑͘͢͡͞C̙̻͓̺̹̥̻̟͔͕̫̥̈́̀̋́̄̏́̐̏̌̊̉͟͡ṙ̡̡̛͎̞̦͚̫̘̻͕̻͖̪̙͈̹̪̠̮̯̯̤̠͓̐͌̎̓́̈̊̄̒́̔̈̈̄̀́̾̈̃̕̚͜͢͞͡͡͡͡ͅͅa̢̨͚͙͍͉͕͎͔̭̰͙̫̻̤̱͎͛̊̂̏̈́̿͐̿̍̐̓̆͐̚̚̕͢͜͡͠͞͝ͅT̡̛͎͕̰̺̟͉̯̯̫̟̹̗̩̑̓͌̌͌͛̆̆̿͒̎͞͠ĭ̧̨̡̛̘̯̩̻̱͎̦̥̪͎̩͍͓͇̤̳̭̗̝͇̤̙͚̪͉͇͙̭̘̪̯̜̘͍͕̦̼̤̠͎̠̮̗̪͎͌͂͋̔̓̑̓͛̌̀̽͒͆͋̀͋̿͋͛̀̆̾͒͐͑̄̐̈̂̔̎̍̈̉͋̎͗̏̍̑̅̿̚̕̕̚̚͜͟͞͝͞ͅͅȍ̢̢̧̨̨̪̠̺̝̰̟̞̦̠͙͔̜̪͚͉̦̙̯̝͔̰͙̼͓͕͉̟̭͎̞͖̝͕̗͍̟̥̺͙̳̺͕̝͇̦̓̇̒̋̃̿̓̏̓̏̔̓̏̈́̍̐̉̌͛̅̋̐́̽̀̈͐̓̉̽͐̈͊͗̎̽̃͒̌̿̎͆̒̕̕̕̕̚͢͟͜͢͟͞͝͝͝͠͝͡ͅn̨͕̫͕͇̹̰͇̺̻̤̪̹̤̱̥̤̬̗͓̖͇̱̝̫̥͔̞̪̱͍͎̘͗͊̓̆͂̈́͒́͐̈́̅̓̓̋̏̓͌́́̍́͆͒͋̂͐̕͘̚͝͝͠͡ ̧̡̧̡̛̫̟̙̻̳͎̤̯̫̲̺̘̗̬͖̠͓͕͕͍̙̰͇̪̥͎̮̠̬̱̟̺͙̎̏͊̀̒̀̐͆͂̄͛̍̉̐̅̐̾̍̐̇̈́̔͋̐̊̊͛̈́̂͘͘̕͘̚̚͘͟͜͢͟͝͝͞͞ ̧̧̛̻̹̭̪̻̮̹̗͕͙̪͎͔̟̞̻̩̞̣̣͔̗͓̙̬͉̰̤̗̠̰̈́̌̃͐͗̄́̍̓͌̌͐͌͌͗̿̃̓̂̋̔̊̊̆̃̓̀̈̏̕̚͘͜͟͝͞͠ͅ ̘̙̹̼̝̫̘̳͇̻̝̝̖̖͍͙͎͎͓̄̏̄̽̏̊̓͋̅̄͂̿̽̇̑̆̋̕̚̚͢͟͞͡ͅ ̢̨͍͍̣̜̘̙̬͚̭̠͖͖̙͓̎́̿̽̓̿̊̉̈̂̅̀̾́̉͢͠͞ ̢̡̡̨̡̨̨̨̛̖͕̱̳̙̞͙̲͕̻̜͓̯̬͙̗̪̗͓̞̬̝̝̩̱̼͕̯̫̬̦͓̘͉̫̩̥͖̙͇̦́̀̃́͌̈͐̋͋͛̀̓́̃̑̏͊̌͌͛̃̌̀̈́̔̓͑̍̂̄̎̔̉͗̋̔̌̄̽̔̿̇͂̕̚̚̚͟͢͢͝͝͡͞͡ͅ ̨̡̡̢̛̬͍͚̥̮͓̞͎̥̙̗̺͕̜͖̱̠̙̽̏͌͑̐̎̔́͗̒̾̏̿̏̌̐̅̌̓̊̀̈̕͢ͅ ̧̡͎̣̗̘̣̖̙̰̩̻̬͇͎̖̹̣͎̖͖̟̮͇̊̈́͗͑̅̂̔͆́̈́̔́͊͑̅̄̀͑̍͛̆̒͑͆͘͜ ͎̰̦͑̈̀ ͔̿ ̳̃ ̨̪͉͖̲̼̑̏̓̆̍͘ ̖̝̮̝͍͑̑͑̍̃ ͙́
When you stare Death in the face...
it too,
will stare back...
at you.
The seed and wisdom of the blade is planted in Us
Boney feet hanging over
the souls of those that ate
Voraciously their fleshy bodies...
A summoning
of warning-wish
emerging from the waters then
Now roaming the corners of minds
Relentlessly seeking
An opening through which to enter...
A patch of ripened ground
To lay its seed
of ruthless wisdom:
"May you one day turn
the butcher's knife against
Your greed" - they speak
And those who listen
Who turn curses into boons
Will be the last ones standing...
With blades glinting
In the light
Of an ageing star
A mitosis is starting....
.... a flicker in the dark.
The BiCameraL Mind, peering through the Looking Glass
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
