Gossamer Gone Rogue

Featured artwork by L.H. Grey

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Mondkopf “The Song of Shadows”

Welcome to our humble home
A Citadel which looks out over hell
The ground around this edifice swells
Incredulous of the terrifying tales that it tells
Black ivy creeps
Yet is foredoomed to fail
These fortifications are too steep to scale

While Daedalus sleeps
Icarus sweeps the perimeter
Hanging in the bled out skies
This diefied inquisitor
Wide open expanses his mere token fancies
300 strong wave of brave in phalanxes

Like an effigy he burns
Scorched wings smolder as he plays beholder to any chance advances
Rewarding trespasses with one glance from his lance
As he stabs out hearts in dance of chance delight
Should fortune favor the brave on this night
And this enclave be breached unbeknownst to our minion
Then we would like to extend a most heartfelt welcome to our dark dominion

Wired to mankind through most tenuous sinew
Each capillary and vein is invested of course
Yet it bleeds not with human remorse
Has no need for such pitiful resources
Not divorced from emotion or caged by it either
Proceeds not with caution but unbridled endorsement to weep like red cedar
Blood may very well run deep elsewhere
But in the Citadel’s keep
It runs deeper

Disjointed voices rejoice their disembodied status
Flattering through chatter of scattering ashes
They bat their shadow soaked lashes
Fashioning pockets of tempestuous tar
A bazaar most bizarre
Prophets scarred from the slashes

This carnival of souls is a carousel macabre
Phantasmagorical oracle
Categorically gory
As our sewage oozes crudely to the bloodiest hell
A place we know well for its glory

Fret not as we are seldom compelled to repel
And the death knell you hear need not signal demise
Need not foretell your grim fate on this night
That depends if we decide to chime the bell
You could well be in luck should you please us sufficiently
If you don’t
Then let’s just say
We go about our business most efficiently

Sufficiently savage to ravage with blood lust most lavish
A ravishing spread of death creeping
You could classify this as one last rite of passage
As we have been known to make beggars vanish while sleeping
Gutting them out with our jagged daggers
We hold little mercy for scum and sandbaggers
Perhaps had they not endeavored to blag us
Then we may have elected to uphold our good manners

Not speaking of pestering peasants here
And wish to make that clear
Those not exempt from our festering contempt sit in dubious positions of splendor insincere
Vendors of relentless offence against anyone less than their rank
We have a special place reserved for such habitual offenders
Let’s just say
It’s decidedly dank

Should you earn an introduction to this sunken dungeon
Then don’t be surprised once we bludgeon you lifeless
Sometimes we grow mindless
And our actions are a country mile from righteous
We might just see fit to skin you and split you
Should the prospect excites us

What say we adjourn to the Vestibule next?
Would appear to make sense
Seems a shame not to bless this most sacred of grounds
We believe we have grounds to compound any lingering fears
Bleed as we finger your tears

This antechamber of fusion is a chop shop for bedlam
Two mouthfuls of madness and four fistfuls of FUCK
As blind luck wouldn’t have it, we don’t give them away
As we won’t have them driven away
By your choice in the matter
You know what they say
Bit o’ splatter
And all in the name of arterial spray

Judging by your startled reaction
We can see you’re not quite ready for exaction just yet
Thus, the Gallery of Abstractions offers welcome distraction
Showcasing scathing portraits of contortion
Distortions of your very worst imaginings
Badgering your senses senseless as they strip you fleshless through suggestion alone
No less than thorough as they plunder and sunder the flesh from your sorry white bones
Getting off on your obstinate groans

As you can see, our Citadel caters for every need
Every doorway you see leads directly to some place freakishly unique
Decadent delectation awaits every gasp
Every breath frozen, proposing your next be your last
And we have to concede that the outlook is diabolically bleak in contrast

On the scroll of dead seas, the legendary Chronicles of Lucifer bleed
Making devil of each detail
As they detail each devil responsible for the holiest of treason
Giving reasonable doubt some gristle to chew
As under the robe exists a sick joke
And we choke on the vile bile of each broken quote from this biblical spew

To our blood we are true
And we bleed just for you
We may sting on occasion
But we much prefer that to the frail art of gentle persuasion
Time is fluid in our Citadel
So please do take your fill
Would never dream of holding you here raped against your will
Should blood be spilled
And it utterly will
Should the heart in your rib cage fall suddenly ill
Then please do breathe with your lungs at full mast
As who’s to say
It might not be your last

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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