HOME | DD

Description
Fat, formless. Amorphous blob, resting there on the pavement. Your shine is duller than the sundry of cold metals you threatened me with. Your smell is enough to gag a dumpster diver. The crows will leave you. You are worse than carrion, more rancid than the last putrid scrap of flesh clinging to the mummified hide of a mammoth.

No one will take you now, and that makes you scared.

Fat, formless. Amorphous blob, squelching into the cracks in your pretentious throne. You had the power to pick and choose your next queen, absorb her homeland, then move on to the next. Your empire grew, seeming to prevail over all others in the land. Your riches quelled your appetite; your queens quelled the rest. Now even the peasants spit when they hear your name, as though your name was some foul curse that pervaded the surrounding air. You have been judged by the good of your deeds, the good of your heart. There was none.

No one will take you now, and that makes you scared.

Thin, apathetic. Pallid, frail little excuse for a conscience, staring off as though drugged, your bleary-eyed gape telling it all. Your vision is clouded, your judgement blurred, your sense of reality slowly disintegrating, vaporizing in your hands while you wither and rot, all the while gazing blankly off into space. How many years of malnutrition, of abuse, of neglect, did it take for your conscience to be so starved of humanity? How many hearts have you crushed along the way? How many of those vengeful fragments have now hurled themselves at you, penetrating your soul with the guilt, the fear, the hurt?

None. Your conscience is too far gone to feel any of this. You've simply become too bitter for me to pity you any more.

No one will take you now, and that makes you scared.

Description
Fat, formless. Amorphous blob, resting there on the pavement. Your shine is duller than the sundry of cold metals you threatened me with. Your smell is enough to gag a dumpster diver. The crows will leave you. You are worse than carrion, more rancid than the last putrid scrap of flesh clinging to the mummified hide of a mammoth.

No one will take you now, and that makes you scared.

Fat, formless. Amorphous blob, squelching into the cracks in your pretentious throne. You had the power to pick and choose your next queen, absorb her homeland, then move on to the next. Your empire grew, seeming to prevail over all others in the land. Your riches quelled your appetite; your queens quelled the rest. Now even the peasants spit when they hear your name, as though your name was some foul curse that pervaded the surrounding air. You have been judged by the good of your deeds, the good of your heart. There was none.

No one will take you now, and that makes you scared.

Thin, apathetic. Pallid, frail little excuse for a conscience, staring off as though drugged, your bleary-eyed gape telling it all. Your vision is clouded, your judgement blurred, your sense of reality slowly disintegrating, vaporizing in your hands while you wither and rot, all the while gazing blankly off into space. How many years of malnutrition, of abuse, of neglect, did it take for your conscience to be so starved of humanity? How many hearts have you crushed along the way? How many of those vengeful fragments have now hurled themselves at you, penetrating your soul with the guilt, the fear, the hurt?

None. Your conscience is too far gone to feel any of this. You've simply become too bitter for me to pity you any more.

No one will take you now, and that makes you scared.