The Ruins of a Bloodline

The concept of dying was never a belief I perpetually feared without authority. Life was the fundamental key to people's opinions of a blessing bestowed upon existence. A bequeathed book that initiated and constructed a person's narrative.

Strictly torn off of that reality, at merry existence, my brother and I sought out to be the devil's advocate. An entity that shouldn't have overcome life, to begin with, although mirroring the portrait of one another was as spellbinding as one could dream; never had it occurred, it'd be our undoing.

The madness and chaos spreading through the exterior were to topple soon the walls we once saw as an escape. To be coerced outside by the blaring riots of society, the guttering sounds of the flickering fire, and the crackling sounds of wood where a foreseen sight perched an actuality at what lay ahead.

At the end of the eerie blood-harvest moon, I resigned, a breath in favor of death as I foresee it with welcoming hands.

When the last spark of life touches our lips, the pale, white winter moon shines and rises upon us as a promising-

FOR OUR AWAKENING.

Warning: Mature Themes And Strong Language!