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babysteps toward the apocalypse.

the accent was ringing through the ears, a twittering melody of sorts, and solely unnerving to this particular listener. the details, sketchy, were pulled from the thin air around them all. the cursed sat utterly awakened to the withering deeds of the others. the lords and ladies, in their expensive fineries, were tripping hither and thither throughout the ceremony. the music played while royals swayed, but no smirk or smile crossed lips of those gathered there. the leader of this group of precocious denizens was wearing a certain golden collar. notes of status and whispers of deeds were all about his collaborators best interests. the madness provoked them all to dance around to the random forces in their midst. unseen and unheard throughout all affairs of gathered sensibility, but known of nonetheless by those there to observe the mess. lungs full of gasping false features to a degree of unfathomable purposelessness. arch-dukes and their promenading queens of various intent. girls and boys sat poised for their turn in the proposed merriment, but one could tell from any distance that the air was rich with disdain for the occasion. they all bowed in their turn. the sounds of fabric creasing and unfolding were the only noise besides the almost incoherent mutterings between the established company. there were thoughts of intent, and utter contempt for the proceedings, the companies of them all were tall and lingering figures. lanky and tapered with arms and legs alone, but a rather solid abdomen and trunk, with stately wigs and masks of make-up. collars of status wrapped around the back of their necks, and down along the shoulders, with many ruffles and flourishes. the crutches, the stilted walkers would use, made them weave and wobble as they crept across the stage. their mobius strip pattern moved raggedly toward the edges of the madness that brought them all here, the party was in dire need of some life interjected, and the established instinct was to run away. the dangerous trajectories of their thin and bony forms would soon spill into the audience. the broken limbs of the shattered imperials wedged between the many denizens standing below the stage. the eternity was difficult to manifest for the purpose of truth alone, there had to be a factor like concrete, and the art of dancing the dance macabre is no easy feat with all of the huddled bodies. the motions of their cosmic roles was immaculate to behold for those invested in the pageantry of this display. how much was left for the end of their energy? what would their reward leave for the other entities afterwards? the screens were all imprinted with the marks of the past representations of whatever collapsed remnant was left in its place. the sword was drawn, and the outrageous fortunes of the masses there made themselves known with an awe as it passed throughout the crowd. the assassin struck with blows unfettered by the depth of the strike there, in the heart of the bite of the blade, and yet all was laughter in the err of ways surrounding their pitch-black chaotic sways. the tumbling motion that rolled through between their feet. was it a dancer, or was it a small man moving forward? the cowardly monarchs silently remarked, looking down with smiles upon their guests, and bands played another dirge to dandy about to. the horns blew and the pipes fluted at intriguing intonations. the party was in total upheaval at the death of a close relative, and no one wanted to take control, waxing melancholy through the unsettling symphony. a spur of the moment affair, the dance became the highlight of the everyone who attended, and steps had been taken to make the gathering interesting. the festive thrill of the party made it all the more worthwhile to have been there, and seen the splendor with one’s two eyes. the whistles and sweet scents of the patrons shifted the mood, as everyone danced amid the cycles of the stars. the swirling smells of spices and flowers overlapping each other as the whole company of dancers spiraled upwards into the air, slowly one by one through the warm drafts carrying them above the heads of the gathered crowd of revelers, and on up into the open rooftop of the tower where they were all caught up and carrying on with a party. forgotten were the assassin’s labors, but too much time was a regrettable loss that only made them more efficient in their skills, more effective at such a sharpened peak of understanding. like certain monks of old ages long lost, a shadowed movement and idea for what comes next in any given situation, and a proper end to any conversation given over to religious quotations. the assassins muttered their own slow prayers of providence from the collective will that only existed in their heads. a creation unified by their creative will of selective destruction, masking fate’s whim under a personal visage of flesh and bone, and able to move around as an agent of this construction. slowly, the monarchs move about with their guests, and their discussions are loud and obnoxious. the massing of smaller conversations underneath the weight of monarchical logic, the pursuit of connection underlying the wills of powerful beings, but only related to and not controlled by these massive egos. one part trying to infiltrate another part, making an art of the mainstream acceptance of the scenes behind their thrones, and the deaths attributed to those discreet incidents. far-fetched ideals of the final horrible scenario, all implemented into place by the established system of authority, and all to further inscribe their power as the ideal for proper rule. non-existent worry over the various representatives of this leadership, all so hideously corrupt, but still some how in an office of power. draining the life off of the lesser people until some kind of revolt or struggle establishes itself over the current lead. wrapped in warped dressings of the worshiped idol the icon at the forefront of collapsed ideals, and a reigning mind for the conquest, to contain a new world snapped into place by a worthy combat. a series only comprehensible under the label of ‘war’, and which it seems all men would lay into their service, under authority of one guided by so few advisors. there was no time for wasted accomplishments, there was only a period of silent mourning, and the rest was left up to the people who sent their children to comprehend the bloody cost of warfare. the capital was not impressed with the sacrificed ‘forget-me-not’s, the blood penance for deeds and sins of the past, but those were just attempts at presenting progress towards a point visible only from some hallucinatory scale. the audience was never impressed with numbers and statistics that only doctors could read. the established rules allowed from dysfunctional plays to open up and unfold, the players described as insane in order to combat the lawless aspects of the society, and to tease out the elements that were always on the rise in one form or another. this last assassination attack in public sight was a monarch from a formation of ruler ship devout to a Gothic god of stone and revenge, the last in the circle to have had outright enemies with places to hide themselves away, and now this strange peculiarity was utterly shattered by the works of the cultish sect dressing in the garb of the registered constraints and habits under the sway of religious doctrine in all their literal totality. the various rising stages were pumped full of patrons here on the boards, and dancing with the others of similar classes, all on the part of decent approval by their monarchy. the classes underneath them were proud of their heritage, and cheered or roared in acknowledgment of their own tribal connections. this was a ceremony of unity, in order to collapse the ideas of the new regime, and their one objective fitting into the foundation of traditional ways unfolding as the stable infrastructure. there were muffled voices in closed rooms, making laws and the manipulating of those narrowing loopholes into absolutes of conscious law, and to set up the ways to constrain a whole society in short order. stacking the odds against the people who buy into their rules, making servants and slaves of the entire population, and puppeteering all of culture into some grand sham ready to fall down suddenly. the trust in a central collective of power governing the whole entirety of civilization underneath its vultures’ wing of souled out politicking. the fascist swing shift swaying the massive intrigue connecting the dots to the rest of the wiring within their pillar-like power structures of minimal deceits overlaid within strands of edited information into webs of propaganda. setting up the corpses and pawns before they are even born, to fit the scheme of an end times struggle, and programmed to puzzle piece ticking precision with internal clocks. burn infernal shocks with grace and speed of wish. to blame god’s trigger finger had an itch. to recount disasters in the paranoid transparency of fear in apocalypse now. the throngs loaded into trucks after the dance, in their finest wares, and the soldiers marched them right into marked trucks. only the safety we have allowed them in their graceless splendors. the bombs that dropped then made by own hands to destroy the remnants of the stage as the villains got away, taken to camps to burn those midnight fires, and fueling that regretful machine that they all started. bunker after bunker hiding the toiling to keep the cogs and gears in motion. bobbies armed with sticks of night, rocked those who trespassed upon the premises, and any one not ready for a fight was lost to them. those with dark gowns seemed to pass, authorized to carry bodies off of the battlefield, and dark never seemed as so frightening as when the streets became war-torn messes. terror fell on the heads of citizens like large blocks of overwhelming ideas, and had knocked all rationale to the floor. stacked like tinder, stiff as wood in the camps, and everyone who died for a cause. shaved and washed by the hundreds, as the mutilation of species trudged on for forgotten causes rippling through the masses still sacrificing their children for misunderstood details burned away by history, and many launched riots after the monarchs started hearing voices. the overwhelming regret they felt making certain that the threat was sufficiently diminished, distracted by pains of conscience, and unable to carry on a fearsome legacy. survivors of the miscreant ravings lunatic fiends tried to pass off as truth to the populace, the fires roasting many monarchs supposedly on accident as they toiled away at hostile plans into the mornings, and made their real power known. the monsters and mutations poured out of those factories of death, and the masses were pulled into one final war, the higher elder authorities presiding over it all. there were no winners in this art of warfare, there was nothing but the finishing of ancient cycles, and the harvesting of vacant souls. the next density awaited for the screaming thrust that was created by the scum of the earth, the killing machine raping the land and its pilgrims, and eating terror up with panic as the fear laid waste to the people’s emotions. the virus was passed on to the airborne cosmonauts ready to dispose of the dark matter once and for all. nuclear missions and righteous decisions made to qualify the esteem of drugged and sedated human androids into line, following with precise quickness the meticulous rhythm that the biological bomb is ticking down, and counting down life time after life time set to die dancing in flames. the seed of division disposed, rocking the gaps along time and space to enrapture those great old ones, but waves of energy warping dimensions into each other.