Four sporadic knocks unshackle the clandestine doorway,
for an eccentric client, coveting to be bewitched by abstract incarnations.
The maze towards the underground lair is deemed a myth above;
for, at its deepest core, lies the infamous sculptor with clouded irises.
Its gaunt talons and deformed gray beak conjuring the dark arts,
whilst morbid incantations unravel the impurity of its creations,
altering the course of one’s life at their own expense.
Its charms begin when twilight aligns for spirits to conspire;
thus, the patron whispers and asks for a bizarre favor—to mirror the image of their creator.
Ominous, yet in exchange for ducats, the sculptor succumbs to command.
The blood hour is nigh! Transfiguring requires lying on a poisonous rack
of newt toxins and protruding spikes to paralyze limbs and flesh;
whilst the sacrifice—to bathe and drown in one’s desired blood, it then chants:
“Begone and wander for flesh and bone shalt forgeth together.
Lord Alastor cometh, banisheth all that is pure and calleth all that hast fallen.
Thy lips shalt kiss this hemlock’s roots, thus, head shalt stretch and temple writhe.
I giveth this unholy eternality to thee, bury what was and thou shalt becometh anew.”
Silence reigns the halls, a murky, sulfuric vapor cloaks the body from view.
What arises is a looking glass—puzzled by their reborn duality,
yet, granted with sharper talons and sight, surpassing their creator.
A dark aura lurks disguisedly, concealing and searching the true potency of one other,
to hurryingly unravel the motives of their bleak existence—to claim one’s supremacy.
Claws protract into daggers, violently thrusting to scrape the others’ skin.
Once a chamber full of exotic elixirs, now a suffocating cage,
where creatures, thirsting for blood, scrap to secure what fragile space they’re afforded.
Thus, as both torsos bleed with lacerations, the sculptor falls to its demise,
with intestines, hanging fatally, while its adversary’s right eye is lost among wrecked shelves.
The creation overpowers their creator, dragging its unconscious body by its hair,
and into the boiling cauldron—to swim among the forgotten souls it has kidnapped.
Donning the dead’s overcoat, their dungeon opens yet again for service—as it typically is.
This article is also published in The Benildean Volume 8 Issue No. 2: Reacted.