Thanatic Tomb Waltzer

384840_devushka_krasnye_1680x1050_www.Gde-Fon.com

Like everything in this realm and many others, there is always a dark side.

The Grave Dancer has a shadow companion, one which she cannot see, feel, or hear.

Her name is Thanatos, the Thanatic Tomb Waltzer. Unlike The Grave Dancer, she died in anger, pain, and sorrow.

Thanatos died down the street from her very own home. A massive pileup happened in the middle of the road, causing six cars to spiral out of control, slamming Thanatos into another building. The wall made of glass gaveway to the force of the car and sank Thanatos into shards of glass and wood. Thanatos was pronounced dead at the scene. Many others passed away from that crash as well.

The two were once biological twins when they were both still alive. Both loved to sing and dance with one another. The two beings exist on different planes of reality, due to the nature of their deaths and the spirits that they hold within.

Like The Grave Dancer, Thanatos was a name given to her.

Thanatos would only be present in places reeking of death and sorrow.

Cemeteries, broken tombs, old decrepid resting places, even unmarked graves.

Thanatos didn’t just dance like The Grave Dancer, she would dance slowly with a gentle waltz, to an uncontrollable wild dance that is forever unknown.

The Grave Dancer would hum, sing, and laugh, whereas Thanatos would cry, scream, and wail.

She was not a kind hearted spirit like The Grave Dancer. She tormented the dead with her screaming and crying. Sometimes she would dance upon the graves, creating more noise than anything else.

For the spirits that tried to stop her, she would send her ravens to chew them out.

She would cackle at the spirits who suffered from her terror. She laughed at spirits who felt endless pain and sorrow. She even would join in if she felt like the situation warranted it.

Despite the fact that The Grave Dancer and her dog are as happy as can be, she still wonders what has happened to her dear sister.

One day… that all changed.

cooltext249072193481591

 

Zen.4

550-502418631-zen-quote-buddha

Don’t fret about today.

Things happen the way they are meant to.

Tomorrow you will be reborn. 

A chance for a new and fresh start.

Don’t stress about the past.

It no longer exists.

It can’t hurt you.

Don’t worry about the future.

You can’t control everything that has yet to happen.

The present is right where you need to be.

It’s not only a moment in time, it’s also a feeling and state of being.

It’s feeling and being at one with your heart and soul.

cooltext259688758949888

The Patterned Tomb

eb7d83ed994846f9f5814974eb18089c

Lattice of bone shape the walls.

Crushed skulls line these halls.

Grinded to dust as they may be.

Break the wrong ones and the evil will be set free.

The bones never stall, nor end.

This isn’t a simple game of pretend.

Every new death creates several new bricks.

They’re somewhat easy to break, but not like stones and sticks.

I swear that these dim halls can talk.

Their spirits are still here; they love to creep and stalk.

Stalk by day, kill by night.

When they touch you, you’ll die from fright.

Goodnight sweet blessed lost souls.

I have lost my battle to the relentless ghouls.

cooltext249072193481591

Zeal Zen Skelly

tumblr_n2lmizIxgX1tvbmlbo1_500

Trippy as the stars.

Clear purpose and a meatball.

A zen meatball, yes.

Clear away the dust.

Open your fucking eyes man.

Your life is waiting.

Waiting for you to go on.

Follow the cosmos.

So reach for the stars with zeal.

Stay zen and weightless.

Life is amazing, it’s sick!

Don’t waste your life man.

Keep it zen like the skeleton men.

Peace

cooltext259688758949888

Sickly

6d0sJcFSick as sick can be.

Sick as sin can be.

Sick as the mortician.

Sick as the reaper.

Sick as the bleeding gums.

Sick as the eyeless.

Sick as the paper thin skin.

Sick sickly as the doctors.

Sick sickly as the doctors’ masks.

Sick sickly as impending doom.


Sick as sick can be from the ungodly cold and the hellish heat. 

Sick as sin can be as the doctors prance through the grass at night.

Sick sickly like the number of bodies growing in the millions.

Sick sickly like the devilish mortician’s fancies.

Hellish as the dreams of the dead fill my eyes and flood my senses.

Hellish as bones crack, as skin melts like cheese, and as screams go hoarse. 

Hellish as the mixture of smells and sights grows more grotesque by the minute.

I’m stuck in this towering terror of pain. 

I was once a doctor… now just a number with which was written upon my back.

Written on, seared like cattle, then gutted like swine. 

I’m mixed in with the plague, like one big steaming stew. 

I have a mask that was made for me.

It was made from me.

The end is near.

Run.

cooltext249072193481591