Vicious tides pull us under
Tearing fragile selves asunder
Amidst the ghosts and amidst the thunder
Of overwhelming fright and electric wonder

I am born anew

Made of many but composes none
I am the breath beneath the sun
Or the smoke bleeding from the gun
Whose barrel knows not what its done

Stuck with much but still so few

I eat raw the children’s masks
Tear from flesh and old born tasks
And rearrange the undrunk casks
Thus in new knowledge we can bask.

I have not one face but more than two

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Need several assistants for large project. Proficiency in stone or tile work required.

Carpenters will be accepted. Will provide training for stonework.


Will come in contact with radioactive-like substances. Will provide gear and hazard pay.


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xxxxxxxxx@xxxxx

We of the Circumdatos Vultus are experienced craftsmen and women who provide a unique and artistic quality to high end living. Personal sculptures, art installations, and special artwork is our top and only priority.

We select only the finest canvas, either based on your recommendation or of our own choosing. In both scenarios you will walk away with a one of kind, beautiful piece of work.

We work tirelessly to find and sculpt the best for our customers. Consider us your only choice.

We take both walk ins and appointments.

Come and find us. You know how.

Oh, my wretched health. I ponder over it, coughing and hacking at the grease in my throat. You listener. Beg for a healthy life. Not that I wish it upon you.

Oh, my body aches and pains at the steps on the sidewalk and the cold cripples my joints and eats at my fingers. How poor is life if this is its quality? What is the point of living? What recourse has led me to this path where my body is so worn? Oh, how exhausting.

My flesh has soured; sickly green and rough, is it, with deep wells open like empty eye sockets. I am grotesque. The grey strands that cling to my scalp are thin and weak, almost silver with age. There is barely enough left to cover my ancient face. My good eye can barely make out its shape in the mirror anyway. If someone were to bash me over the head, I would barely know it was happening.

I am surprised some criminal hasn’t marked me easy yet. That’s all that’s around these days. Criminals and the weak-minded, barely able to sustain themselves. Whiners and criminals. There is no place for people like me. Yet, I survive.

Oh, I survive. I am far past my prime. Any ordinary person would have passed away years ago, but I am still here. Despite the winter’s cold and endless nights, I still breathe. And I can’t stomach food any longer. It passes into my rotten stomach and returns as black bile, thus, I haven’t eaten for ages. Yet, I linger on in the world of the living. I know my time has long passed, but it has passed so long ago that I am confident that I shall never expire.

But, if death does come for me, he will bring someone to make me go. I am certain in that. This world is cruel. It is as sick as I am. Just as rotten. My timely death could be at any moment, but here I am. I will live in wretched health until that day comes, in misery. But I will live.

I call out to the sky, my hand raised and outstretched to the silhouette of someone looking down. The sun blares white noise from behind it, blinding like the light of god, but there is no god.

No god would spread my insides out across the street. Not in the shape of crimson stained tire treads. No god would keep me alive this long. I would be dead already if there were a god.

Instead, I am here, screaming without breath in my lungs, looking at some fool who looks back. Go you moron! Go! There is still time! Stop staring and go get someone! They can still scrape me off the streets and push me back together. I can live as a giant ball of meat, I don’t mind. Just don’t let me die! Please. Not me!

The body disappears and only the light remains. I stare into it. My retinas fry and everything goes dark.

… Your feet crunch against the pebbled pathway. The crickets chirp methodically in the darkness, cyclical as if they’ve always chirped in such a way and always will. Something cracks in the inky forest’s silhouette and goes silent. Before you, in the darkness, comes a shape. You see the forest spread apart and the path turn to grass, stretching beyond your lantern’s light….

All hail the Red King! King of Dusk. King of Dawn.

King of murder. King of blood. King of birth.

All hail the Crimson King.

Bring your sons and daughters. Bring your wives. Bring your husbands. Give them upon your knees to your king!

He wants you. He will fight for you!

Bring your enemies. Bring your foes. The king of Red will swallow them whole and return your loved ones to your faithful arms.

All you must do is ask. Send an offering. Send a gift of red, upon your knees, and ask. Your lord will come to you.