Watcher of Evil

Upon the ivory throne, licked black by tongues of fire, the watcher of evil sat. His eyes, dizzy and grey, stare out into the dark. He shakes, as if to stir, within his seat, but settles down again. Until all evil ends, his task is incomplete. He watches on.

No end, no end, he finds no end of cruelty and deceit. No end of blood and death and pain, an endless caterwaul of life’s depravities.  He watches on, barely knowing himself beyond the sight he sees.

He spies a bastard, born in sin, and now his life, in passion wrought, in passion is destroyed. The youth down alley path his advisory meets. Their brawl is short, for knives are quick. His blood pours out his side.

All this the man absorbs, the watcher in his ivory chair. His lips then part, and a dried tongue protrudes to lick his lips. The evil taste is good.

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