This is the face of wraith and vengeance. Hate. A sin to destroy the effervescence of the soul. A Pulverantilist opens up to all stations of life. The ugly, the clean, the sinful, the miasma and the bright.

March provided her soft cool days shortening shadows shooing away the blight of winter remorse. No diffident dalliance, no rotten stone upturned, musty and decrepit beetles, slinky centipedes scatter on lights. Inherited horrors, crushed windpipes and dangling gruesome thighs, eschewed of tender digits, fine passions. Like Poe’s dangling cat or entombed walled bodies pounding in the chest of miscreants screaming out to let loose the hellions of guilt.

My eyes are blackened, gouged, seeking the revenge of destruction. Woe be the one who encounters such vigilance. I must flee, sortie, flight from your family, the cohort of bloodsuckers and liars. There is no honor in your ilk. Better to walk into the long shadows of days end, than play in your filth. Though even these noble aspirations will become soiled with the indelible stain of hate and revulsion. For I do not hate myself at all compared to your vile decadence and inhumanity.

Curse thee and all who encounter thee. Now goddess blows the winds down on my soul purging a catharsis of filth accumulated. The beginning afresh as a forest after fire.

Endings occur in our lives, for only then beginnings – new growth endears. Hmm? Montag?