Strum the string as he comes. The king he calls himself, a fallen one. The devil's friend, his inn, a host for evil and temptation. Hear the screeching sounds of his choir as they announce his presence. A veil of glory sits upon the head. A crown or a trophy?
A Halo.
Glory is he to the people. His subtle presences of impending doom disguised as victory to the helpless. Smart, are those that challenge. Idiocy, to those that cower. Swords shall pierce and shields shall guard, though none to wield them.
A prophecy.
Inevitable, the ground trembles from the followers. Falling. Fearing. Fathoming. Guiding his people to enter the kingdom through deaths door. They know who comes for them.
A king.
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The Smile on my Finger
Short StoryThe world is large and confusing. Sometimes I receive thoughts and just want to place it down. Here are those thoughts.
