He rises, ponderous muddy flesh slumping from straining bones and overtaxed joints, smelling faintly of effluvium and talc. Scabrous swollen hands pass lightly through his stiff, brittle shock of straw-stained hair. He heaves and sighs as he struggles into his expensive, ill-fitting clothes.
Servants ooze into the room, ready to insinuate their aid, to indulge, perhaps to hiss a compliment.
He is Lord and Master of the Underworld, King of Traitors, Commander to a mighty battalion of cowards, deviants, prostitutes and parasites. He is Sovereign to all those who cover their faces and cower in the darkness, to those for whom impunity is born of anonymity. His is an army of sad misfits, desperate for relief to come at the hands of a vengeful god.
His eyes are pale and dull, pinpoints of darkness in a red-streaked clay, like black holes in a dying nebula. The simile is apt; nothing beautiful to his view ever is reflected in his conversation or countenance. As one wanders the gold and mirrored halls of his veneered and plated palace, it appears as though every corner and angle is slightly askew. He sees straight lines and perfect miters where in fact none exist.
His mind is a fog, an incoherent mixture of grand plans and petty resentments, uncomplicated by fact, merely raw ego, a lightning storm of illusion, bitterness, fear, need. The cacophony of his cognition is amply revealed in the babble of his speech.
He descends a broad and tapestried staircase, to the delighted applause of his retinue. He is risen once again, a new day born. Heads bow in his presence. “Sir,” the men gasp. Bosoms heaving, women weep.
In truth, his jesters loath him and his enemies mock. He has no friends, only dogs that turn and snarl and battle for his scraps.
De mortuis nil nisi bonum. When he passes, no one will speak of him at all.
Don't hold back, Tom; tell us what you really think! Wow, so eloquently stated.
You’ve outdone yourself with today’s post Tom. Well done.