Quite not right, he seethes and indulges His need for death and decay.
With the heated rotten words fuming from his breath, the air of his soul, once pure, has gone rancid.
Only the putrid bile of his necrotic viscera and malice remains.
He claims to be a god.
But his eyes remain as a window through which one may catch a glimpse of an angel with broken, bloody wings and a halo of strung razor blades.
The undertones of his blind hatred and the notes of his vengeful, . lost-spirit-choir
cue an ancient primordial fear… There is danger near.