.. A Story of Truth.
Posted: 08 May 2014, 19:58
Corrupt. Oh, how corrupt.
So many moving in the confines of silence and violence, secondary to the Bushido Code of one deemed the Samurai, which is not given out as a title for slashing through enemies with great power. Ignorance, was bliss. Bloodshed, splattering with a grotesque smell of iron. Why did they grin, had their bloodlust been more powerful than their souls that would be in the confines of eternal damnation?
Benevolence to these men under the tyranny under one monarchy seemed almost nonexistent. The winds from the great dome of blue entangled with the blood, only to curl and whip it about and send it off. A warning, to mankind, from one Omnipotent being? It seems a Creator has given up on them. We all look up instead of looking down to help ourselves.
Could one man cease the inevitable -- Or could he simply stand back and watch? The tugging in his soul stained with the blood of chaotic damned souls was called will and pity, which never left him alone from protecting others. The red oculars pouring down as fast as the rain drops that were eastbound. The storm's violence as quick as the vehemence that the Hitokiri Battousai shown once he descended with a mighty blade.
No longer could he feel the numbness in his fingers that cracked under the pressure of the blade that took away pain and gave coldness to a descending spirit. How mighty, was it? Could it withstand the lightning of Odin, the pain of the Gods, the wailing of distressed dying man, against the hammer of Thor? Oh, how did he not know? He was so potent that the flesh to him was but paper against a parallel entity of Godliness.
The blade itself, doing nothing but slashing through air and hitting the beams of light. Was he there, in the Heavens above? So sweet. The birds letting their melancholy ring out as loud as the past cries of men that begged for their lives. The winds carrying the sweet smell of innocent white plums that were just as potent as a murderer's sweet art of killing and living by the blade. Such a smile, one that hadn't been seen in five millennium.
Solo-mon spears of light from a crescent deity of balance descended, making the obsidian-black hair glitter in the luminous lavish touches like the left-behind water-struck rocks upon the great beach, sparkling, reflecting a smile of light off of its flat form with omnipotent blithe. The olive-skinned formation over a repugnant quintessence blotched by vermilion substances
Nay! There he was, taken away from his happiness when reality struck him as hard as the sharpest blade of the quickest warrior, in the confines of indecency. Was he once more blood-drunk? The flies of pestilence swarm around and dance with the waves of light that twinkled, still, against his facial features dressed in the blood of other men. The low sigh emanated, coming out like smoke.
Once the wintry winds came sweeping in, immediately the kimono about his body had been wrapped around his sore forearms. Though it was tattered, it still warmed him. Slowly he walked onward, bare feet dragging through the dirt underneath, fauna and flora about avoid him, except for the reaching brachiums of trees that attempt to entangle about him, only to be tossed away and broken.
Rare, was it that this man was against anything else but other men. But here a god of the winds and the great storms were against him. Was this his Hell, his punishment for being so ruthless? Nay, nay, it couldn't be! He was too used to the bloodshed, as were the three sisters of Faith that peered down at him, holding his seemingly endless ribbon of life. But how could they choose now, to end him, when he had stopped his foolish ways?
Oh, had he really stopped? Had he not just gone against those many men that attempted to oppose him? How could he do such a thing, destroy the weak? Was his agility and speed not good enough to narrowly escape them? His pride did not allow him, which is now his ultimate downfall as seen now. The cold whipped about through the great caelum above covered by the ashen face of the clouds. A sly smile spreads upon his face that turned cold as he peered down.
A man that lived by the blade? Did not die by the blade, but the coldness, the same coldness that he dished out towards others from the tip of the blade. In no regards of their life. A slow huff expanded from the esophagus, and the grass under the cliff of Earth helicoptered and soon layed, when the winds.. swiftly, took away a soul. Reaping, taking to no where that was neither Heaven or Hell.
END.
So many moving in the confines of silence and violence, secondary to the Bushido Code of one deemed the Samurai, which is not given out as a title for slashing through enemies with great power. Ignorance, was bliss. Bloodshed, splattering with a grotesque smell of iron. Why did they grin, had their bloodlust been more powerful than their souls that would be in the confines of eternal damnation?
Benevolence to these men under the tyranny under one monarchy seemed almost nonexistent. The winds from the great dome of blue entangled with the blood, only to curl and whip it about and send it off. A warning, to mankind, from one Omnipotent being? It seems a Creator has given up on them. We all look up instead of looking down to help ourselves.
Could one man cease the inevitable -- Or could he simply stand back and watch? The tugging in his soul stained with the blood of chaotic damned souls was called will and pity, which never left him alone from protecting others. The red oculars pouring down as fast as the rain drops that were eastbound. The storm's violence as quick as the vehemence that the Hitokiri Battousai shown once he descended with a mighty blade.
No longer could he feel the numbness in his fingers that cracked under the pressure of the blade that took away pain and gave coldness to a descending spirit. How mighty, was it? Could it withstand the lightning of Odin, the pain of the Gods, the wailing of distressed dying man, against the hammer of Thor? Oh, how did he not know? He was so potent that the flesh to him was but paper against a parallel entity of Godliness.
The blade itself, doing nothing but slashing through air and hitting the beams of light. Was he there, in the Heavens above? So sweet. The birds letting their melancholy ring out as loud as the past cries of men that begged for their lives. The winds carrying the sweet smell of innocent white plums that were just as potent as a murderer's sweet art of killing and living by the blade. Such a smile, one that hadn't been seen in five millennium.
Solo-mon spears of light from a crescent deity of balance descended, making the obsidian-black hair glitter in the luminous lavish touches like the left-behind water-struck rocks upon the great beach, sparkling, reflecting a smile of light off of its flat form with omnipotent blithe. The olive-skinned formation over a repugnant quintessence blotched by vermilion substances
Nay! There he was, taken away from his happiness when reality struck him as hard as the sharpest blade of the quickest warrior, in the confines of indecency. Was he once more blood-drunk? The flies of pestilence swarm around and dance with the waves of light that twinkled, still, against his facial features dressed in the blood of other men. The low sigh emanated, coming out like smoke.
Once the wintry winds came sweeping in, immediately the kimono about his body had been wrapped around his sore forearms. Though it was tattered, it still warmed him. Slowly he walked onward, bare feet dragging through the dirt underneath, fauna and flora about avoid him, except for the reaching brachiums of trees that attempt to entangle about him, only to be tossed away and broken.
Rare, was it that this man was against anything else but other men. But here a god of the winds and the great storms were against him. Was this his Hell, his punishment for being so ruthless? Nay, nay, it couldn't be! He was too used to the bloodshed, as were the three sisters of Faith that peered down at him, holding his seemingly endless ribbon of life. But how could they choose now, to end him, when he had stopped his foolish ways?
Oh, had he really stopped? Had he not just gone against those many men that attempted to oppose him? How could he do such a thing, destroy the weak? Was his agility and speed not good enough to narrowly escape them? His pride did not allow him, which is now his ultimate downfall as seen now. The cold whipped about through the great caelum above covered by the ashen face of the clouds. A sly smile spreads upon his face that turned cold as he peered down.
A man that lived by the blade? Did not die by the blade, but the coldness, the same coldness that he dished out towards others from the tip of the blade. In no regards of their life. A slow huff expanded from the esophagus, and the grass under the cliff of Earth helicoptered and soon layed, when the winds.. swiftly, took away a soul. Reaping, taking to no where that was neither Heaven or Hell.
END.