THE INCANTATION OF HORUS WARLOCK CONCERNING A DRIFTING CLOUD
Here's another assemblage of words. They could mean something, if they find something in you. If not, words are cool anyways.
The hymn song rang dastardly in my ears and hollered across the torso belly and pubic forest, which belongs to a titan rhinoceros god.
Horus of the Son and the daughters of this Harmony Warlock arrived and made a home of the cursed fog, which hung like a dead political vigilante's bloated techni-color corpse.
I bend to pluck the marrow from the black fevered grass, the field is brimming with the coarse angel growths, like a rib cage from the fleshy mounds yet under the charcoal and neon gas of the longsword heavens.
The Daughters are waving in sways which mimic the grasses laughter movements. They splinter stare and Horus claps in laser blasts over the mourning daybreak.
My helmet is lifted, as if to see my sights covered in the dusts of purple Legion and the wingtips of butterfly martians, come to seek their fortunes to folly.
A blade is heavy here and the wine walk, which brings fruit, was a moon ago. It yielded the black grateful vine one last taste.
I am want to laugh as the scepter of the death troll strikes down a turbulent breeze, just an ache of breath. It had been living in lungs grown from gnarled, thick fleshed, trees.
The dance of the warlock's daughters catches the light and old juxtaposed Sun is pleased. I seat myself before the power held in each crooked movement flowing as the undercurrent of baptized holy oceans.
The lung tree riddled me once and I answered where words are meaningless, unless spoken in spells and loving whispers to the graves of fallen centaur power lords.
The war was friendly to the blood soaked ground and the splinter grass craves one more morsel of blue flesh.
Embrace the air and become dust, which is all things concerning a wind's struggle towards it's other end.
The trail embarks and concludes at a single point, between the suns of a thousand years beyond a single bigot moment.
The Titan god we live on breathes. If that happens the message written in blood on a shard of sky will crumble back and back, until underground pixie-sprites laugh at it's humility.