The road extended into the horizon, a grey dirt path flanked by rotting blight spotting the soil between pools of fetid blood decomposing the remains of the forests casualties. Blackened pillars stabbing through the soil into the black sky, lit by A luminescent moon streaming pure white light through pale mist dotted with a red and black haze being released from the ground.
These are the gates of hell, where good and evil meet.
Candles at the end of the road reveal the presence of the three I have sought. Their movement in the distance has stirred a raven into my direction, his short flurries keeping him close to the ground, avoiding the razor branches up ahead, closely nestled in a spiral around the trunks of the trees their a part of, ready to snap at a moment’s notice – severing to shreds any victims these monsters find in their airspace.
Half a views distance the ravens plight is decided as the swamps ingenuity has him fluttering between mid air and the lance thrusts of extending roots jabbing from below in precise and calculated continuity. The dance of death ends with a sudden opening of one of the forests slicers and the sound of ripping flesh between finely edged rock hard wooden sheers.
Deaths flower blooms often in this land. Demented Beauty.
Only do the pure walk this path for the fear causes such mishaps.
Yet the exit an unexpected elation at the realization of its spiritualization. Its untainted essence slowly dematerializing into another life – leaving its ruptured body behind for reintegration.
The ashen way has droplets of wax strewn across its rocky surface from many a walk of offering.
The silent ritual a quiet declaration of peace in the name of experience beyond the physical tributing the reality of transformation from perceived physical into ethereal.
Those living a statement for the sake of the experience experiencing the ones living violence to make an art form of anger.
The meeting point the entrance to black brush guarded by three hooded villains wielding scythes towering above the white clad candle bearing offeree’s . Flaming red eyes reveal no emotion, more over portrait indulgence along with a glare describing long held anticipation. Ragged teeth clenched in bloodlust awaiting the release of a howling scream in reverence.
This is the culmination of the full moon.
One knee to the ground, candles raised in holy declaration of conviction one word is said by the women in white as scythes are raised to their apex and energies are brought to an infinity continuum:
Namaste.
As the blades come down in the slowest of motions, each escaping droplet of blood may be seen as if floating gravitation free in a timeless field embodying the action in its brutal glory and its paradoxical nature, before the bodies fall on their sides – the wraiths let go of their weapons and bellow in a storm of maroon energy exploding from their chests. Sickeningly and finally the energy hurricane seizes in a gasp – leaving them unaware of the now disembodied spirits of the fallen hovering before their very eyes in the same contentment as before.
Each being solid in stance, spirits watching their former bodies being ripped and dragged into hell before making their way back home to start reincarnation. The betrayal of life blatant to one and to the other proof of superiority, to me poetic irony for: belief is key.