Raised
up from the powers of Hell, Xivaâ, gave up his soul to live his dream, that he
was a prince, with his shepherdess, in the Great Vale of Atlantis, cradled in
the great mountains within the heartland of Poseidon —
Lo, he wished to live
with her in kingdoms that never were.
Forthwith,
it came about, a perished kingdom made out of ashes and burnt-out pyres, shards
and heaped ruins.
A
dream or necromancy, who’s to say?
The
lotus flower he gave to his beloved, with her light-auburn hair, and sea-green
eyes, and garments of weaved silk, while in this cyclopean sleep!
Alas,
a squire imp, pronounces him satisfied.
Now
awakened in the lofty flocked pastures of Poseidon, a monstrous dominate lamia
stands over him, in certitude… Pointing
a large stare, and straightforward finger, upwards.
As
if he had lived his woolgathering daydream, his lifelong pomp if indeed it be called
that! Real or not!
In
the end, his claim, has descended to dust and scarcity, was it real or was it
not?
It
doesn’t matter, he must now forfeit his soul, for he has lived his ambition.
And
in consequence, he is brought aloft, where Ablis sits on his throne, made of an
ever burning stone, where forth, Xivaâ’s soul becomes marked by the Eldritch
Dark Empire with its sigil.
And
now, to live his days out in sequence, and bated breath.
#5267/6-8-2016
