Desecrated

Ron Koppelberger

Desecrated

The fragile concealment of cobwebs and monoliths, the character of consummation and oblivion, It was a means of misery And yield in immigrant oceans of dark beauty. He was scathe less and in pure sabers of trust. A degree of whispering depth ran the length of his spine, a brand in degree of avatars and romance. The brand on his neck was a semi-circle, incomplete, a half moon, bought by servitude he wondered.
He had the unchaste division, a sanguine acquiescence in immortal sweeps of vast savannah and blooming birthright. The braids hung in gentle ponytail encouragements of flowing electric seam. Bonded to the desecration and frayed by the trespass of immense anti-harvest flames, tongues of heat given the light of hell. He saw fire and flowing waves of wheat, saffron god he thought. He growled and flexed his claws. He saw himself running wild free to the flame, “I must succeed.” the wolf sang. “The desecration of< STREAMS, PATHS AND THE GARDEN UMBRA, I MUST STOP IT!” He donned the cache of twilight tide and headed west, to the wind and the rain and the decree of great heroes, to the dominion of quiet slumber and intimate cinders in the dream of his future, perhaps the future of mankind, for the want of desolation of the promise of heaven, he was just a wolf and just a man, nevertheless those who would destroy hope and the wonder of a blessed dove stood fast in his path and he knew he was the key to humanities survival, the need of a yearning truth. The taste of ash wet his tongue and he knew the time was close. He saw the garden and the world in an instant and the vision was pure beyond those who would desecrate the secret, the bond of blue sky and endless wheat.