The strangled screams of the streets are alive and decaying in unison.
It always had to be this way; seeking only answers, not asking the right questions, and selfishly forcing ourselves into a perpetual state of distraction. And throughout time, the real answer was always right in front of us.
Surveilling, dormant and cold, the unblinking immortal masters of this world await the birth of their era.
Rosary beads are wrapped around broken hands and hearts, like a blindfold tighter than a noose. All the while, the clenched fists and shattered wrists of those others grasp at the shortest straws of hope.
Spreading their morose and restless wings of destiny, the masters are taking flight. Screaming the most wretched cry, on course towards their final destination.
The horde of the masters only forsake a poisonous shroud of hatred and failure. A planet tattooed by hypocrisy and greed will never heal as long as the power of a few men behests it’s fate.
But now the world is gone, or at least the one we once knew. The masters are here.
The hot stench of their breath is enough to roll the bones of forgotten generations deep within the cold soil underfoot. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
Soaring high above the horizon on the stale winds of destruction, their piercing x-ray vision stalk us, ravenous vultures encircling a bloody carcass.
Those same blinding eyes will escort us through the thin veil of eternity.
— — —
“There is no purgatory for war criminals. They go straight to hell, Ambassador.”