Frolic

Frolicking is a deceptively hard sport. With its guile, it’ll attempt to entice, silent and free-spirited. It is a deer-specter, haunting you with blue ethereal matter, a fright even more fearful because of its awful beckoning. Its injured wailing. The blue deer whimpers into a harshly biting breeze. I have the urge to rhyme here, but the matter is too grave. The blue deer shakes his head, for wont of a more appropriate action, all the more artifice. The little liar. A frolicking deer, the worst type of deer. Stop staring at me deer. I can tell you are saturating me with hatred. You wish me to frolic with you. To jump and dance together, to let go of all our material bonds and simply let the wind take us. But, what of us when the frolic is done? No man frolics for eternity. The blue deer may bicker, the blue deer may tug, but I can’t, we can’t. The spirit doe knows the consequence. Without the coarse curb to file it’s teeth, the demons flit out. Flit, flit. Dropping on the ground, plop, plop. Propagating primordial bile and hellish steam, they unravel wings that flutter with vibrations not of this dimension. Grimy claws clatter on the terse terrain, smacking and clutching in vain efforts to sprint and frolic themselves. But the deer demon can’t frolic, it’s too late for the deer demon. It can only destroy. It would destroy that which it loves, but it loves nothing in our realm. The blue deer was a guise, horrible and mystifying. A gateway to an unimaginable hell, barely diverting the sound of Satan impaling babes and shrieking mothers. But as they stumble and jitter, the deer demon dancers don’t emit a shriek or howl. The quiet and taciturn evil is the most base form of putrid death. It is the black pit. It is the cosmic rift engulfing whole galaxies without a sound. Death’s hand shuts eyes with a graceful sachet, the blood ballerina.