The Blood Moon
It was the blood moon and the normal activities were on eating the flesh of elders in the forest. Cutting off people's toes and dangling them off the sycamores. This was the commonplace practice under the silhouette of the blood harvest. Churches embroiled with priests teeth glued to the altar. The Virgins of Virginia will be sacrificed in the forest again. God knows what happens there the flesh of kindred darkness hovers like a blue crimson spectre. Hopeless nights the wayfarers would wonder along the rivulet banks fishing out virgin breasts to eat, they like to smother the Virgins of Virginia. The feast would be rapturous, and the essence of the cool air would constrict their skin making them paler for hell but they would be impaled sincerely, and miraculously the pool of shadows in its dexterity would impose beauty on the void of the drifted midnight. The incubus awaits the Virgins. The farmers would carry them after shooting them pile their bodies on the ancient draft horse cart and they'd be driven through the bog and the mist would consume their souls. Memories of persistent pain arouses their egos priestly hearts.
Blood was the desert of oppression the slavery of freedom. And the Gods were never in a state of remorse for how the world works. The sudden fire the battlefields were always attached to mankind. The sweetest tragedy was love, and the vindication of religion the nevermore ravens predominated time. The randomness of literature lied on the battlefields of Nice. History tells man of sorrow, and horror man finds meaning in the fire in the blooded chapter of the skies. The story can go anywhere but the bosom of reality.
Somewhere in the mountain mist the image of heartache lied on the snowy peaks of burnt corpses. The smell built an illustrious mausoleum into the hearts of men. When the Virgins return the Gods would return. Man hated the pure because the pure in heart where without sin. Without fault, without guilt. The freedom of sun was in them and man resisted it man turned on the Jesus in the wind. The softness of transgressions buried love it buried the memoirs of the defeated Kings of Jerusalem. Here the Gods couldn't be anymore for man found that blood created the story. Blood created the universe.