When Demons Shout Down the Better Angels The scenes ceiling is an endless shade of blue while on-stage

a sneaking breeze gives momentum to the tumbleweeds; visions of subtle russet shades fill out the background as the valleys rocky monuments surround; the West was meant to be a fresh start free from such evil acts. Inconsequential brutality among the beauty; a sun-bleached bounty now tainted by stains of blood now splashed across its scape, viscous redness in a simmering pool and splotches scattered, the sunshine above highlighting a crime no historical record will ever know. A lifes worth of fury pent up in his fist, unleashing it in bursts upon a face caving with each successive blow. It takes four strikes to collapse the left side. The skull leaks its inside fumes, plumes of metallic sickness waft into the offenders nose, leading to welling eyes and nauseous throes. Hardly over the acidic liquid traversing his esophagus, his burning rage has already dramatically regressed, and with cooler wits he may now observe his sin. The departed was putrid, a betrayer, scum and swine, and yet, the offender felt torsion in his intestines. No man deserves this fate, He realized in a post facto epiphany. When hate bubbles and finally boils over, demons tend to shout down the better angels. Barehanded manslaughter is not befitting the civilized man, better belonging to the darkest depths of jungles in undiscovered lands. His hands now dyed in the color of cruel death, a gruesomeness that would forever sink his guts and damn his being till his dying breath; doomed to a lifelong sentence of guilt and illness, the sense memory once more arose that aroma of fresh blood split under the sun and seeping into the soil. A nameless corpse now lies until the end of days,

his regretful grim reaper crippled with grief beside, reeling from his lapse in humanity. Knelt, trembling, and appealing hoping the All-Seeing may have blinked. But, he knows the whole horrorshow was on display. Not a lash was bat. He knows.