TENTACLES

Some things don’t come wrapped in pretty packaging, with bright colours and soft, silk ribbons. Some things, sometimes, come engulfed in fire and death, warped by violence and delivered in fury.

There was only darkness in the future.

The skies were covered with ash – they looked like a painting that had been smeared by deadly, giant hands that only yearned to destroy something beautiful. Paranoia — fear and loathing — were all you felt in that desolate place, though it was softened by the melancholic past that played over in your head. That’s the only place where they managed to escape: in their head, for they knew the present was already ablaze.

So with blood and fire, the new pages of history were written. Brimstone burned in the distance, but for now everyone consumed themselves in the impossible; in that which they were told they could not do. They bled themselves to death writing their own lives in the sky and in the sand of the greatest deserts and in the oceans around the globe. Sacrifice was their absolute recompense.

And their death and life as soldiers both devoured and inspired. Like Venom, it spread through the veins under the sea. Like tentacles of the great octopus that haunted our dreams as kids. It reached across and sucked everyone in. Thirst for the Black Venom had us all sweating greed.

So engulfed as it begun, engulfed it will crumble. But not in vein will blood be shed, nor the sacrifice be volunteered. Not if the Tentacles are cut off for good; if the Eagle breaks its wings; if the head of Medusa is cut off; if the King is dethroned.

Could the Third TIme around indeed, be the charm? 

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