***I promise to post more often from now on***
Terrored by the spines that do not waver,
And the life lived by those with little spine.
In the brush of the deep, decadent woodland;
Feet on sucking moss, and rotting leaves,
Lumbers the Beast – eyes towards destined heavens;
Where gods linger, fingers on buttons,
As hesitant as ever with their raging, cleansing thunder.
For the time, the wind is silent.
No longer does it sway the branches with fevered anger.
It is still – overpowered by the Beast’s rumbling heart,
Its pumping arteries, and the dark blood that races throughout.
Many times, he’s been up for slaughter,
He’s run, run… from the cries of, ‘You monster! You killed my sweet, innocent daughter!’
Though, the Beast of the Wood, he knows no different.
It’s basic instinct; but the masses with pitchforks,
They never listen.
Not with their closed minds, and their simple god-appeasment.
Blinking in darkness, the Beast dwells on what has passed.
On all the things that have come and gone.
The light that faded with the growth of towering trees,
And the bright that dwindled in the hope of recompense.
It’s at night when the Beast thunders through the undergrowth,
Head up high, eyes to the stars – as they always are.
Deep in thought, in a mind that is accepted to bear none.
Rendered lifeless by the terminally, sickly mindless.
If only there were something he could do,
Something to lessen the pain of being unknown.
Alone in the tangle of green –
The stench of aged decomposition.
The stars draw the Beast,
For it is there where he sees salvation;
Be it in the true gods, or the beauty of light only he can see.
Beast… he wishes he weren’t known under such a name…