The Man of Grey

The worth of a man is known by the way he acts to the other of his kind; the others of his

own species. How can the facts of life point to the way of enlightenment when you make peace

with all living creatures plant, animal, and humane? The habitat of all things in our world contain

our homes and the loves we have come to know they are either physical, or mental. We tear

away our boundaries in attempt to better ourselves but instead we tear away our souls in process

of making ourselves into gods.

I implore you for the logic that seems to elude me, the logic of understanding my fellow

man, for it has been high time that I would fit in with humanity and its faults. I understand those

close to me; those who are my dead family and friends. The dead speak no words and fill my

mind with wondrous sounds of music that relates to my state of worldly items. They speak of the

ways I see in the world, which has become the blackest of a dark man’s nightmare. Filled with

the gruesome facts that endow our world with its pregnant dangers that prowl as large wolves in

the distance to sink fangs into the flesh of the good people of the world. I have seen the evils of

the dead which haunt my moves like shadows.

Can you not see the hatred which courses through my veins like that of the carrion eating

birds that gleam the intelligence befit of the devil himself? Old Scratch is knocking at my hearth

step, waiting for my failure in the watch I keep. The orbs that peak into the very soul of myself

betray my horror for the creature that tells my story as a comedy to his slaves as he whips their

flesh into ribbons. The lust that flows through me for power, and want of a love to watch me or

for me to watch them has turned towards the lust of man and woman. The yearning of warm

flesh is confused by the want to devour the meat that covers the bones of my fellow humane

creatures. The want of the bodies of the warm entities that I watch day in, and day out for

fortnights at a time.

I yearn for the joys of the flesh but it yet poisons the love I feel for the literature I yet

write. Pity is to late for the man I call myself, and yet I pray to The Black Woodsman to release

my heart to those that might treasure it; yet I fear that being to deeply engraved upon the

trustworthiness of the innocent may taint their forms. I am a  treacherous fool who uses deceit,

and gambling as my tools of trade. Beware, for The Black Woodsman’s pupil is The Man of Grey.

Taken for the Devil himself as the personal slave in training; the fool that sold his soul so

he may learn the secrets of the black one and his trade. For money and riches I have given away

my most prized possession in return for the teachings of the Master of Witches and the scraps of

his food which fall from the pit of the garden’s droppings. Trust is a fool’s hope in the Castle of

Thorns where resides myself and the other fools whose footsteps I’ve taken without a light to the

fact. The lust of power and man alike has turned to a rock of hatred; sadness that has taken the

light of my eye to that of the gleam in a wicked one’s crystal rock.

The trade secrets of Old Scratch rest in my consciousness until the day I consciousness my

loved ones beneath the Earth, and yet I fear it for the sake of my own lost soul. The pity of God

to never fall upon my face, and to never see the light of day the way a child would in the morn of

his birth. Goodbye maggot ridden trees, and horses with flowering manes of corpses. I carry well

this wealth of knowledge given to the forsaken and diseased. I as a leper know the tale of my

own well for it is what dwells with me through the darkest pits of hell.

I shall always be alone, and when finally brought to the humanity of others they shall spurn

me into the wilderness where the animals of that nature shall rend me apart from my very bones

and flesh in scorn of the human race. Oh what irony to be spurned by all that you wanted, and to

be spurned from those that you wish to protect. The irony of I, “The Man of Grey”.