Atop His Tower


He stood atop his ivory tower with a grin and swagger unbefitting for his age.  He had become callous, twisted, the very villain that he had once despised.  He fit the role perfectly.  His cloak billowed out into the fading light, folding and shifting, mimicking silken spectres caught in the twilight.

He had once been told:

Those who are not honest are more-truthful in the night.  It brings a certain gravitas to conversations that can rarely be replicated in the day’s light.  It’s our devout understanding of humanism, that drives us to bleed into others…but, only in the dark.

Why look into the eyes of your tormentor?

Flashes of gold and scarlet, beg pedanticism, but hardly do we relish in candor during God’s hours.  We want the truth when He’s away, and rightfully so.  Our sins are our own, once shared.

Evergreens spread into the valley like Ross’ happy trees, and not only did he not notice or care, he desired to burn them.  He needed the crackle and the heat to ignite that missing spark—  The one that had been missing, but ‘oh-so’ yearned for.  His scruff hung, like a dangling preposition, casting shadows upon his cheekbones—  Filling in the lines that had been scratched over.  His should-be blue eyes remained perpetually grey now.  They couldn’t shine for what they couldn’t see.  They could only show what they felt.

It began to rain.  The moon had risen—high and tight—blossoming into fruition, desperately calling to forgotten astronauts and lonesome bees.  It was impregnated by a lost spouse.  One that she had never met.  One that she wanted to know, but never would.

The man in the cloak stood, defying a God that he refused to believe in.  It poured.  Lightning cascaded through the sheets of rain like a wayward speedster looking for the reverse to be true—  Caught between the heavens and the ground it finally struck in a boom and a flash.  The Evergreen laid broken and split, smoldering like a corpse.  It gasped its last breath and then escaped into the cold, cold rain.

He remained.  Watching.  Ever-present.  Assuming the role of villain; making sure that the world still turned, or rather…

…burned.

Ivory Tower by TSONLINE via DeviantArt
Ivory Tower by TSONLINE via DeviantArt
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