Vast Servitude

The ancient powers holding your throat are ready to kill. 

Their fingers machining into your gullet. You know what they must do. 

For the entirety of existence, a ravaging has occurred. 

All must eat. We all want more. 

More for the fear of less. More for the pains of none. 

Stockpiles erect, promising future selves. bounty and salvation for those who may stake claim.  The ringing in your ears is the skritching of fingers scratching out the wills and trusts today. 

The clockwork of the etching is prone to jams. 

Some fingers have hands that can grip stronger. Hands that are able to clamp down and extract a bountiful feast of flesh and blood. 

These hands were tempered by past violence, engorged by past flames. Fit, fat, full. These hands plunge deep into the beast.

Fastest. Hardest. Deepest. 

Plunge with a blush of the tension the surface may offer. Sewn between any resistance the chattel may afford. 

These gnashing crimson hands operate in disastrous rhythm with the rusted sinewed network of arms and eyes that crave this meat. But it is the hovering eyes over this blessing that learn. 

The lust peels at the eyes. 

To see the meat. 

To know it is there. 

Just within reach. 

If you just grabbed it. 

 The eyes take in the operation of the fingers. Recognizing the carnage, anticipating the reward. 

They eyes navigate their tendons and levers to dig the fingers deeper. Harder. Faster. 

They mimic the dance of the most victorious operator. 

Buttons wiz. Lights wirr. 

Eons exists, yet all the same. 

what.

is.

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