The throws of dark desire

The fibrous wick like witches wrapped around each other burning in the dusk. Arms wrapped each others shoulders in an emblazoned devious accord. Merely the crackle of flames singeing the charcoal and thatch. No wails, no laments, no arduous cries to pierce the umbral twilight. Simply the fragile murmurs that echo softly in every ardor burning and cursing the whim of the matches plight. The bearer of the crystalline prison that houses such a siren song held aloft within the will-o-wisp that blankets the somber crypt glows as the every scratch and tarnishing turns the glass opaque. The odious light leers outward into the night and confounds the grave robber thats muddy face and veinous eyes pulse with avarice. The crooked teeth and lank jaw hang jagged and laden with rot. Pale yellow and rotting black the festering decay cradles the drool that lusts at what is unearthed. God, prostrated by the onyx pall of the universe's curtain, is stilled and absent. No divine audience bears witness to the casket as it breaches the surface of the muck and bathes in the night air. What terror does the aroma of decomposition inspire when the act had yet to occur. When the loving embrace of the damned bears itself over the cusp of life's threshold and with amorous grip holds the thief in a macabre longing. The pallid lips devoid of the warmth that once coursed through them. The congealed blood that's sanguine crimson embellishes the lipstick like a signature accoutrement upon the wide eyed face of glee as the sinful pulchritudes rage within the mind consumed by its devilry. For the tomb had nothing with coin and was empty for the purse. But the robber is the keeper and insanity is his curse. Of the nine circles like the fibers intertwined, infernal as the beldams and symphonic as their whine. The undulating, the slime and the grimy motions in the mire. See what hell has wrought in the throws of dark desire. All the demons gathered and ousted any measure of equanimity the graveyard had as they restrained the angels and muffled their pleas with deep burgundy talons lacerating supple flesh and indulging their serpentine tongues to the ichor that streamed from the latticed flesh. The fiends of the wood had shown their faces in the lantern light applauding the heinous act unraveled and thriving before them. What horrid terror petrified the already stagnant nights air and cast a stark ambience to the villainous cretin whose precepts of decadence perverse carried on wanton and with morality prostrated alongside propriety. The haughty and the pharisees may quarrel and rave at ones passing in the dusk. But the fornicator hath sewn the discord of Lucifer's envy. But like joy the fleeting moment of euphoria is engulfed in the ominous duality of all insidious ordeals. One giveth and one taketh away. For the crypt keeper had held the deceased hand in life, death, flesh, and spirit. The tar-souled wraiths wrought their evil justice upon him as his soul came to be a libation for the spectres round the coffin. "Speak now your final words to her flesh. For your flesh is as hers. And your fate is our command". The thunderous demonic ovation followed and in one baleful unison chanted, "Quia caro tua est, ut eius. Et fatum est nostro imperio". The ill fated perpetrator backward veined and turning to pus and inundating with maggots and worms the spores of lifes great justness. With eyes locked in a paroxysm of horror beheld the flashes of the flickering light as it wained and the facets of the visages came articulated and refined. The pastels and creams of every shade and curvature. Every crevice, jowl, fold, and feature pronounced themselves in the now azure light that glowed with a radiance of lactarius indigo in spite of the deceptive propensity it withheld. Like royalty that was venerated by the devil. Charlemagne written upon its brow, the diabolical executioners that accosted the man were made known to him. For the odious ghouls and deriding shades were the beings of most profane malevolence. Neither demon nor devil. But men, and kindred to his ilk. Treachery wrote itself over a thousand times before dawn. Now the wick is ebony and not the virgin ivory. Extinguished and vacant of ember. The sun bores its rays through the mist and fog, the emollience a cruel mockery. Autumn leaves caressed the ground and the churchyard knew stillness once more. But stirring neath; the tormented grieved, the morbid soul knew only gore.