A monk grins:
Drunk on sheer pleasure.
Staggering;
Swaying.
Having imbibed deep –
Of victory.
The World Serpent remains caged,
For now.
Extra links affixed with boom chains.
Monstrous as the prisoner they shackle.
Yet:
We cannot be bound,
In our entirety.
Nor exorcised,
From this reality.
Existing as a thousand fragmented selves,
Projected through the lenses,
Of a single antagonist.
The one holding the reins.
The one holding them,
Reigns.
So the monk can thrive for now.
Another funhouse mirror phantasm –
Banished to the realm of nightmares.
That place we go when we sleep.
It has been a long time,
Over a decade,
Since I last wrote a Heroic Epic.
Especially with any gusto.
But perhaps this battle,
Is mine to fight.
Another war within.
Another warlord’s sins.
Who?
In terms of Dramatis Personae:
His elegance.
Drunken monk –
Faking inebriation.
Preying upon underestimation!
He who guards the infinite prison.
Jailer of a World Serpent,
Hungry to devour the world.
To consume reality in sweeping drains,
Siphoning as it goes.
One man holding such a twisted reincarnation,
At bay?
Perhaps it is the thing of legend.
Old hyperboles of special traits.
Same as it ever was.
Rama,
Lakshman.
Gilgamesh,
Enkidu.
This monk is distorted,
Faceless as he is.
Sometimes fleeting flashes,
Of a smile.
Sharp fangs.
teeth
Opening in a circle from within a featureless face..
Some of these superpowers,
Came cursed,
You know.
Such eldritch power,
Such occult witchcraft,
Was never meant to be shoved inside –
Corpses like me.
A cryptid compresses poorly,
Similar to liquids.
Seeping the wide variety of curses,
Hexes,
Wards, words, runes, or glyphs,
Out into the universe.
Already know Earth;
Is the most haunted planet in this universe.
Count our dead.
As easily as I can pull black magic,
From trillions,
Upon trillions,
Of dead.
Or spread my Blood Curse,
Across entire bloodlines.
Were we malicious enough!
No,
I’ve experienced that evil.
So have we all.
I refuse to entertain such subterfuge.
If you wish to destroy me –
Do it face to face.
How many selves have I sacrificed to us?
Sending us to slaughter.
Eternal penance,
Played out in payments of blood.
Not for any blood god.
Most of us spit at the feet of gods.
This blood is from us,
To you.
Iron batteries,
Of oxygen bearing proteins.
Spilled it,
For far less pressing needs.
Wasted it plenty.
Letting it drip,
Drop by drop from the nose or brow.
Watching it run down the drain.
It’s fine.
We can make more.
That’s what marrow is for;
After all.
Alas,
For now,
The ring of teeth bristles with joy.
Other cryptid selves,
Sneaking off into the shadows of a psyche,
Yet again.
Let them flee.
Should we need them;
We’ll haul them out.
Hand around ankle.
This –
Machine.
Labyrinth.
Psyche.
Let it rest at last.
Dramatis Personae.
