Come one, come all, take a stroll down the Road of Blood…horrors and delights switch masks, wear alike faces. Tears are blood, blood are tears and dreams are husks of breathing fears.
If you’ve ever entered a nightmare, bones shivering in their tightly wrapped flesh coats, staring at the mouth of a monster, then you might have passed the road a time or two.
This is where everything dies, and his born, and lives and grows, withers, expands, decays, blows away as decomposed powder, or sinks to mingle with the cold soil of the Earth.
Life is nothing but a constant bleed. Every path is bound by horror. People live for fear, are driven by dread, and all of their monsters have a face and name, even if they remain anonymous.
On the Road of Blood, we will see all varieties of accursed creatures, monstrous maniacs, barbarous beasts, and vile villains from all walks–or crawls–of life, dragging themselves from beyond the light, clawing at the ground, collecting dirt beneath their nails, wishing it was the flesh of an enemy.
God forbid–and He did–that you splash through the crimson river rushing along this ancient street through the oldest of forsaken cities, beneath a ragged sky punched full of holes by the tentacles of the abominable beings occupying–in both senses of the term–the celestial realms of this dark and twisted section of the universe.
The Blackened Earth, beyond the gate of bones and skulls, beyond the wicked whispering void, vast and vicious, vacuous, vexing, destruction, death, eternal life and peril, hollow, slumbering stillness: the sickening cycle of suffering, bold, brazen, breathtaking, backbreaking, and beautiful–it is the mother and father, life-giver and death-bringer; it is all the Light and Darkness in the meaningless life of man.
As the blood washes out the village, collapsed on the roadside, on the outskirts, at the edge of oblivion, a ruined, toppled tangle of rubble and debris, new faces arise above the mass graveyard where the rotting tides submerge the dead, baptizing them in the blood before burying them just above the roof of Hell.
The Road of Blood never evaporates, or dries, or coagulates; nor does it become a tributary to drain or empty. It is eternal as long as the living breathe.
Find yourself swimming, swimming, breaking for the waves that crash the sepulchers, seeping into the cracks of decomposition.
Morbid it may seem, but this is life: a rivulet forever rushing towards the end. Blood only dies in water…
So let it rain.