Roseheat
Down, steep, in a hallowed, slime-smeared foxhole, waits an old, gray man, weathered weary from the storms of a stray life.
Living on the faded memories of a broken mother, her name not remembered, his once sacred soul 3 days to the day torn by crud-crusted demon dogs, leaving him decimated and forever desolate, grasping a crimson petal, tranquil and calm, not so the clamorous and eternal piercing fatal signals of Armageddon above, in the violet-black hue of deep, tragic night where few survivors remain about a wasted shame.
Egoless now, surrender complete, this gray man's tears fail to come to the surface.
Nothing else matters.
Except the perfect heat of the crimson rose petal in his calloused hand, its' current, flaming eminence, its crowning achievement to rekindle reward and drowning hearts crushed by the Flood.
As seamless First Duke of the East, which commands 31 legions, and old, baleful Asmodeus, close their exit journey for complete domination of the once-pristine Promised Land, the pupils widen as his ashed death rattle sacrifice at the forsaken paws of every singed sin and sadness ever set aglow by the curse of consciousness, is reset and the playing field is blank, a gift.
I am no one.
The roseheat, a sliver of sand, a needle of blood, breeding silent for one billion millennia, finding one flawless way on a maybe day when the wild prophets say, "Bizarre dreams, to rush for you," that roseheat does shimmer and glimmer radical for you.
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