Wrath
My tongue lashes out in flickering bouts of irregular fire storms that bring with them the intense heat of our forgotten lore. The old mythology has been thrown out the window, no loner do you or I exist in the state of continual wonder at the past. No we have been transported to the present day, living in the platonic state of the now; never obsessed with the forthcoming of tomorrow. Eternally blessed with this moment in time—frozen—so to speak.
It wraps around the base of the language and with great vigor forces itself across your back. Great lines of red and pink blistered across the small of your back; feverish images of demons running their long-nailed fingers through your pink flesh and ripping it in two. These images stay with me, linger on my tongue, leaving only the bitter taste of iron hanging on the tips. With my tongue I flicker sentence after sentence and fuel the perpetual flame that burns underneath your feet; with my tongue I continue to deceive you; with my tongue I continue to destroy.
Then all at once it is silenced, by the dryness of a tongue out of fluids; deprived of blood to keep it wet it shrivels up and begs with mercy, “please let me feast” before ripping down your body and moving on. The next feast has arrived. My mouth is salivating.
