Great Soare Falling Asunder: The Rotten Earth of Chthonic Rebirth.

 
Darkest days dowsed in fire and blasphemous smog that saunters to displace the old town beauty - the old town charm. The isolated sun charged down by the glistening moon as if it disgraced the sky. Vagrant upon this isle, he hath no dreams, but one of debauched gratification: southern harlot confined to the pebbled streets for the feats of salacious requests. Surrounded by children falling by the fallen as the rain washes the soot off their abhorrent faces, the clock tower strikes and the stench of cholera followeth as he flees from his knees in search of solace: a way out of this atrophic furnace.

Procuring shelter among tombstones, rats and bones to find a noble figure speaking in tongues of eloquence and grace, he feeds to harvest life to raise the chthonic race. Ambivalent catharsis: ecstasy and pain coursing through the now tainted veins; potent is the blood of another on the eleventh hour. Darkness prevails through the town and now the pestilence grows. As the fire augments, the pale white moon torments and dents humanity with a dire curse of disease and insanity. Love cradles the lamented sorrow, for tomorrow eternity awaits. As coffins creek and trees whisper to the shallowest of graves, his skin turns cold and embraces the power he holds. Upon narcissistic change, a need to fulfill a thirst: a carnal urge to purge life into the lifeless.

Omnipotent wanderer, pale faced and proud, roaming disgraced streets of old London town. "Hark!" he bellows, then flattering words follow; persuasion, the incantation for the gentleman of darkened thought and mysterious guise. The rotten earth lies and the scourge in top hat and tails walks with cane in hand whilst peering at the celestial moonshine. To dine below the divine and rest above the grime, a beautiful disaster until the end of time.