Grasping the air from the incandescent torches of the cult. She was there, long gone, with none of the bullshitry witnessed, looking from a distance and observing, waiting, capturing that perfect harmonic moment of elation. A guardian form of the weak, she symbolises hope and new vigour for life that proved fatal and demised. These were men no more, only fragments of imagination of forms unlike our own, their humanness taken from them involuntarily, serving as sacrificial lambs for the kipple of earth multiplying on its own like the kipple that it is.
Branded sufferers of the unkind and unjust treatment of nature's ever-loving wrath, they swarm the streets in hopes to regain their insufferable ability to think, for it is no longer theirs to perform, stolen from them by the desires of some unknown entities looking to evolve into something more than it can accomplish for itself, in hopes to stray away from the wicked grasp of predestined circumstances.
While all her followers claim dominion over her name she hibernates under the preconceived prophecies of an eagle, immovable in position, and the boiling point of her rage tips to the maximum, that in one day she hopes the complete annihilation of every single thing. She smiles at the thought and takes comfort at the loving, aerobic sensations of her imagination. The end of something wonderful, could it be, she wonders. Turns her hair into silky, straight and whip-like gold, aimed at the frustrations of the possibility of failure. Her mental prowess glowing steadily in anticipation, her blood-stained heart commiserating, her feathers igniting the flight for the harrowing.