WOLFTHROPY / BROTHER. BREAKER.
he, horror of his body. a puzzle of dismantled limbs and atrocities, reaped and marked with death and savagery. oh, how cursed he is by dawn’s molten lips. how he trembles ‘neath his own set of decaying bones. stranger, stranger to his own heart, to his own coldness, to his own touch. outstretched fingertips blossom from tartarus, and they do not feel like they belong to him anymore. ( did your body ever feel like yours to begin with? ) foliage, heart-reek. he, the one who death follows like an old friend. who does not greet it, but can still smell its lingering stench behind. foul man. one of teeth snipping and no soft edges, nothing but rot and rot and rot. he has lost enough, he will not lose sirius. no, despite the fact that there is no more joyous youth hidden in to the windows of the soul anymore. he cannot recall the essence of his ill friend anymore, he cannot see into him the way he once could. is this not his doing? is he not this infection of a man, one who is now the spear that drives through the heart of others? what an enemy distance is. it haunts him, quite like a ghost, reminds him through pale visage what was once there and lively. they were once there and lively, and between them was warmth impenetrable, but the chill now conquers his breath and nerves.
❛ don’t worry about it, don’t worry. ❜ ( you beating chamber. ) he is enraptured with demise, fallen for its charm. the sailor to its siren call. ❛ just rest for now, old friend. ❜ he can taste the mark of the dementors darkness, even now, only next to him.
lupicide, canicide. are they truly so dissonant ? here, ‘neath this welking welkin, the apricity of aceldama owns all. an hundred thousand little murders delitescent ‘neath the flesh --- every one of them xyresic in their blooming & threnetic in their dooming. mayhap this is a sothiac sort of singult, sloe-tongued & screaming, screaming, always screaming. DOES HE NOT HEAR IT ? what use is a lupine ear if it misses the howling ? what use is he with his mouth still bloodied from the fowling ? ------ the dolor of dementors still lingers as deosculation ‘pon a hound’s lips, death tucked ‘neath the pocket of his tongue, brumal & bruising & benthic, so benthic. he knows, now, the sapor of his soul. he knows, now, the fracture of a whole. so fragmentary this fool ; rosarium aflame, the razing of every fane. FORGET, FORGET, FORGET --- you are so very good at this. the nepenthe has a name, & it is yours. always, always yours. ------ his toes cleave to the rivage of the river, lethe-kissed & lethiferous, chronos’ sands slipping away ‘neath his feet. that which is built riparian is always going to slough into the sea. once you are undeified, not a single ear will turn for your plea. YOU KNOW THIS, YOU DO. you who are dirempt & deciduous. you, abodement of abandonment & abuse, the astral turn of the world caught in your jaw.
one breath, two breaths. remus is talking. remus is talking, & like this, the meat of him is plucked by the hawking. ❛ thanks. ❜ this is not what he’d meant to say. the dove slips from beyond his teeth all the same. ------ but what else is to be said ? an emarcid epoch yawns between them, this vorago dogged by vecordy. the vultures are epulose over his marrows, jecoral strings caught ‘twixt their beaks. this is all he knows, now. the sepulchre ------ the sparagmos.
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