(inchale) BITCH
death and kamski are lovers , some say . it’s the same waggling tongues who spoke of god in silk robes and angels with blue blood ; the same rasping heathens who clutch to their false idols of all breeds and say , see ! see how they burn ! when it is them who poured the gasoline , and struck themselves aflame .
“ it’s beautiful. ” you and kamski , unfortunate to that sanguinem cordis of yours , are far from such . it is through your iridescent eyes you watch , creator’s hand untouched , unguided in the work of an angel with silver laden eyes . how that blue blood the heathen’s cried like spilt milk stains him , from those quick working hands to those eyes of far - off stars .
HE WILL NOT HEAR YOU .
it is not that he can’t . you know this , you in pitch cloak and skeletal hands . it is that he won’t . he won’t hear YOU , he won’t hear GOD , and he won’t hear THEM ! THOSE HEATHENS WHO WET THEIR LIPS AT HIS MORTAL INFLICTION . kamski will hear none of it . naught but the birdsong of his angels , writhing under hand .
“ you’ve outdone yourself. ” and yet .
AND YET .
you are here all the same . you are here , watching uninfluenced hand hold the beating heart of a creature you watch coming closer and closer within your power . it is with every rasping , raking breath that angel takes it becomes a potential victim , but OH , HOW YOU ADORE IT SO .
for how gorgeous is that but the work of a mortal who loves his creations ?
