The Garden of Hatred

T'was the night of blood covered my severed heart of purity, but it shan't be an obstacle for me to shower thou with hatred.

And with my blood, I shall turn this handshake into a drop of madness. It shan't be an obstacle for me but one for you. With this hatred I call forth he, the whisperer, The Red Star, The Damnationof Hope, one who must never be named. Return my hatred to a curse where even death is not an escape.

With the words I shall whisper upon your ear, the air shall turn as icy as my heart once was and the earth shall crumble beneath your feet. As I last out this anger I found within the deepest depths of my vessels, you'll go forth and vanish onto a world of unknown.

A world where hell escapes into reality, a world where your god can no longer save you, a world where your god has abandoned you. A world where running prolongs the inevitable, a world where surrendering is the only choice. May my hatred curse your frail body, may it boil and freeze you inside out, may it decapitate you, may it mutilate you. Enjoy the pain as it will be the last thing you will feel; enjoy your own screams as it will be the last thing you will hear, and cry as it will be the last thing you will do. And lose hope as there is no salvation for you.

Thus, as your body melt into the madness and your screams silence the poignant passing of time, I shall reign this world and turn it bloodier than blood rising from within me. Through it is not I who will truly rule, but the hatred that succumbed through me.

But alas, the painter was snapped back to reality by the screaming and shouting in front of him. "I must paint," he mumbled as he painted over a piece. "I must paint," he laughed. "Yet the noise would not stop," he chopped his ear yet there is still noise, he chopped the other one until he heard nothing. He fell onto his painting and his blood covered the yellow flowers.