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Imagery. And madness. The usual.

A swordsman with no master, no apprentice. No purpose.

A blade, forged with radioactive fire, stoked with napalm. A blade with no sheath, and no hand to grip it. There is no resting place for it. What place is meant to hold a blade?

A gray stray cat follows the crows, who follow the cat wherever it goes, whenever they find food they share. But about each other, they couldn't care.

The cat is a girl, the crows are a man, two halves of a whole, a loaf of bread baked in a dented pan.

A man who stands off kilter, twisted, blighted, wearing a mask and large air filter. He kicks the corpses from the road, but knows not why, for no one else will ever trace his steps.

A man of metal rusts and creaks, his head is cracked, his oil leaks. He stares into a shattered mirror, looking not at himself, but at a woman, pale and naked. He raises his cold iron hand to the broken surface. The woman returns the gesture. A barrier they are forever aware of, but unable to cross.

The fallen angel clutches what remains of his left wing. Never will he fly again.

The tall man wanders through the forest. Skin like polished ivory, clothes as black as ink. \

The girl, an eighth his height, starts to cry. He tries to comfort her, but he is no father to her. His embrace holds no warmth, no love, neither do his words. He could not smile if he tried, for lack of lips.

She cries until her tries run dry, tears off the angels wing, and shatters the ancient mirror. She opens the door to the sewer, to let the rats run free; chases off the cat, throws out the bread, and slams the pan onto the ground.

She steals the sword of fire, and breaks the sheath over her knee.

She buries the sword in the tall man's heart, to forever remind him,

that he is a monster.


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Crowley K. Jarvis
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