Whitewater Gorge If I Beg, if I Plead

 hell's f i r e was shining on y o u

Immersed in salient melancholy, memories flood him in fragmentations; history thrusting warm fingers into his state of emotion depravity. Affectionate, tender demeanor--it was not him and never would be. he was burning wickedly; labouring a violent mania--hopelessness. Sevastian was not regretful of his life--non, it existed to taper him into thep perfect weapon to deprave him and create a place for hatred. It were veiled beneath a surface of celestial beauty, eyes only interrupting the illusion with their slow-smoundlering animosity. 

 Now succumbed to complete and total darkness he basked in the moonlight--rigid edges of his contoured body going from a quick saunter to a halted stand. ears twisting to listen to the life that finds it's way flitting through the night. "Who goes?" His voice a lie. a simple baritone that was devoid of intention. He was the archangel--never the guardian. He craved something more carna; that what he presently were experiencing. tongue wet inky lips and his eyes searched for the figure bereft of a specific location. 

sevastian arsenio