Part I: Specicide Blues
These things rot in my primal brain. They eat through my sanity. It was slow at first, but gradually the plot thickened and I was left with the aftertaste of insanity. I have seen the battle between Gods and monsters, and seen the revelation that the Gods are the real monsters.
A painful march of death orchestrated by the symphonic hateful metronome of the defiled saints; fodder for those immortal beings.
Humans are nothing on the battlefield, except for rotting corpses, a welcome mat for oblivion. Their only use is for the advent of fear, and the haste of self-loathing. My only wish is to finally die before the aftermath—a hell not from the fear factories of the gods, but from the true Titans of Ragnarok, those of which have been too blasphemous to speak of throughout history’s slow, bloody march.
Death now can only be hastened for the few remaining, for I will bring it to them with open arms, and have them greet it with the warmth of friendship. They will slay their foes with a ferocity that no being has or will see for the rest of infinity. I wither in sadness, immortal, vacant of soul, terrified of freedom.
A festering cloud of disease and rot batters the landscape with its omnipotent sickness, defiling the pure, pristine life-force, decaying it with its stench. The rain, or what should be rain, storms down in a sickly brown torrent upon the earth. Parasites devour the life energy of those creatures within the range of hills. A spell of sickness conjured by an arch-demon of decay.
The vast armies of decay sow their seeds upon the earth, devouring all life for its wretched abuse.
This is war. This is oblivion.
**Written ~ 1997. © Jacob A. Pickard 2025. All rights reserved. This work is protected by copyright and may not be reproduced, republished, excerpted, or used for academic, commercial, or derivative purposes without written permission.**
Ecoheretic 