perhaps if we told fables with complete honesty, embracing the macabre laced within each romanticized word, a blessing upon injured men who seek their stories told with truth, then things may fix.
the gods of which many gaze up at in awe, grasp at with clasped hands whether it be in prayer or desperation, seek for the mirror to reflect an idol of realism, and yet we still create falsehoods of those superior regardless of the time that passes. even if heresay creates a fine path of footsteps towards the ideal, it can be snuffed out, erased with the twist of a heel. nothing has ever gone the intended path and those gazing down may only point the finger, not for smiting, merely for blame.
many spoke of deaths wrathful word, a haze of damned soot and misery brought upon any who dared to question it. he who put any who intervened to the slaughter, another vermin to crush within their fist with haste. he who kept the futile smears of blood and viscera upon his figure for all to witness, wishing for the masses to cower. he with machinery and industry, traditions now putting a strict scowl upon his face.
razor, divine yet a gods critic, turning its back promptly onto those who stand proud around it. youthful form with mind aged with time, strength of 100 men yet weakened within its foul mind, its hardly understood. never has been, never will been.
he proceeds, alone by ones interpretation even if surrounded by many.
