Hounds of the Storm
Political freedoms revoked.
The smell of death thickens the air.
Bodies…burnt, mutilated, and tortured fill the streets.
The lost souls strive, but never succeed.
Only the bliss of their hopes keep them going.
But what hopes?
All dream lie shattered at the base of a mountain called Power.
Where only the strong survive,
and the weak are crushed under the heels of Hierarchy.
Monitors who kill a vagrant begging.
And a child playing in the dirt is but carrion.
Monitors to exterminate Love,
and enforce its punishment with death.
For how can True Power exist in a world with Love?
Power meant to rule.
Not to lend help,
Aid the unfortunate,
Or show Kindness.
Friendliness is an emotion for the week,
Friends, merely excuses to depend on others.
No, only True Power can survive in these shrouds of Deception and Evil.
Such evil that is surpassed only by Hell itself.
Or perhaps this is Hell.
Where Grief and Pain run rampant.
Disease strikes out unwarningly.
Forever surrounded, yet forever alone.
Rain always falls,
But the only thing washed away, Is the possibility of knowing Joy.
Mutiny, Treachery, and Cruelness crown a deceitful world.
Hands which grope, but never find.
Minds which see, but never comprehend.
Cold steel surrounds all in a world of Might.
When the curious seek, their answer is only the warmth of the Incinerator.
Death is the Tollkeeper here.
Fascism, the one named God.