A Recipe

A Recipe

The pot brims with tempered heat, energy on the edge of explosive release within the pitch perfect point of eruption, yet desperately contained within the fading seconds of the pots flaming brew

A spark of demonic fury flavours the pot with unkempt rage, a relic of days when gods would roam and nay but fools and heroes infused would stand their glare

A spark of not more than a pinch of godly wraith to spice the temper of even the devoutly calm, such power contained within an eye possessed simmers such raw energy, enough to burn armies with an absent look

Offset by the endless remorse that lies hauntingly beneath the glazed face of a soldier, long past his days of war but still hounded by the ghosts of those that failed to survive

And flavoured pure with weeping worries of angelic sorrow that echoes in every tear that they have saintly shed, wings low in mercy as we add the hymns of fallen stars that once called to heaven as a home

For the slight of a fox that with flighty motion would kill the very moon of mournful nights we pluck but a singular strand of hair that paranoiac senses so to protrudes from the fine wired flesh of an assassins back

And then to further the dangerous mix we do the impossible and steal from the most reverend thief the very essence that with guiltless abandon lets him slink in shadows, sink into the night of a whim of those that possess darkened sight

A heroic emblem emblazes all that honour would bestow with force that burns with glory, outshines all that would try to match and seek our heroes sword, we will take such ego and make the recipe complete

For these are a few of my favourite things, a few of the demons that would stand and so viciously fight as in the background they equally apply tricks of devious delight, to seek to divide and take

For the good of humanity?

An epic symbol of all that fortifies all who would fall to the mighty cause of all that’s right?

No my fiendish companions, for the selfish will of the one who serves whilst placing a dagger in my back

It is the poison that seductively pushes mere ambition to the far out mark of the mad, an easy journey that would beckon merrily on whilst closing behind its willing victim the only way back in shades of remorse

And as such elevate to king, those that would also be betrayed as our treacherous mix fuels those who would provide the lightest push, to fell a king on his own egotistical sword

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