I have to remember eventually. That’s not logic nor emotions, but more something like fate. 

My preferred mode of transportation~ on a giant steampunk koi blimp

𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖇𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖊

𝖎. 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖙 mayhem! murderous femme! serial archer, papers say beautiful beaus discovered dead arrows pierced through the head hearts stolen away creeping silhouette—a bloodied brunette! lunatic huntress playing goddess feeding on necrophiliac nectar the crimson ichor cascades from flesh and fresh poison-smeared arrow. satin ribbon roped on her bow draculian dagger strapped to her thigh impaler of cartilage and ribcage and still— the smile of sadism absent from her visage the city is a coliseum of carnage! naught but a circus birdcage for fools. warriors are trapeze performers— none to gain all slain after the spectacle suspended mid-air and fallen a hangman's game but the monster forever lives in a labyrinth———. . . . . . amidst cordium of corpses aligned in her catacomb passages and beyond the abattoir— a waning crescent moon shrill abdominal moan of cicadas shattering solitude as she stalks the night her appeased cabin fever seeking shelter from the pitter-patter of cloudburst. showers in a secluded abode—not hers. "alas, a welcome haven for the wolf." finding it soulless, she enters the privy dropping her darts of poison ivy on the tiled floor blood-splattered stripper of latex leather armour revealing each finger too beautiful for a ripper every moon crater uncurtained like a cadaver under the knife——— "hmm... knife stays with me." the perforated nozzle makes its drizzle. lady laid bare in the dead of night humming gentle airs in a stranger's lair and though blood sinks down the drain she knew the water washed no sins away stillness soon unsettled dark nepenthe's slave skeleton in the cubicle sodomy of psyche and scythe both sharpened like samurai blade but only the death angel's penetrates subdued no longer by her simplistic lullaby sensing cessation of the cicadas' cry buxom beauty points the dagger to her bosom suddenly desiring to die failing to discern behind the slightly ajar door— a peeping eye. "no!" came a voice distinct to her delusions. "you musn't—!" cutter pulled away from her chest she awakens from the crimson cesspool her fingers feeling the warmth of a hand belonging to a beautiful man exeunt omnes—in the nude. an empty husk echoing only madness and lust akin to a vampyre baring her fangs for the bloody banquet bidding farewell to the casket "monsieur voyeur," she clutches his throat with threat of a dagger. "does the sight of flesh excite you, too?" but the mystery prowler paid no heed to the knife on his neck nor the small stream of scarlet flowing from the tip of her blade for blood was already running in his veins reddening his cheek even before rendering her suicide in vain "that might be so, madame... but none so much as yours who, like a painting seems never devoid of its colours." "mere folly," she scoffed. "you know not of me." "i know my death would not amuse you in the slightest, fair madame." "and what, pray tell, compelled you to think like so?" a dauntless declaration. "because you bathe in blood— yet, there is only sorrow in your eyes." the innocence in his irises beholding her nakedness aroused the lady's suspicion no further loosening the grip on his neck weapon withdrawn finally sighing her way to the tub for a final scrub "indeed. your dying breath alone would be of no value to me. prior to that, perhaps... your screams may do me the favour of drowning out this silence." "you are afraid, then, madame." the slasher merely stared into space with a ghastly face scorning the soundless embrace of the room permitting the peep-tom, in turn a small fragment of her gloom. "i confess—this darkness arrests my fear. the moon is at rest to-night but solitude cannot quite console me. oh, they may come in flock and lock themselves up when lune weeps in melancholy or wreaks madness, but i have only my own company in misery and malady. a murderess is voiceless— i merely dance in their masquerade rouge on my face maquiller de poupée! but only victims sing upon caress and none yet have been blessed with my name." "then..." he paused to smile, "i've lived in solitude as well for a while, seen plenty hell— but never with beauty to beguile when defiled by death. never... till your apparel fell did i hold my breath, my dear." to delve deeper into the maze of her cold-blooded heavy metal gaze, the woman barred entry baring only her body and yet, in her head a diabolical ensemble seemed to cower against the orchestral, pulsating organ of the man. "monsieur," said she, "you will live to fancy the forthcoming phases of moon if you swear to secrecy— to permit my entry to your bath to which your scrutiny forbids you to swoon or stroke my flesh to only accompany this villainess with whichever word you need express that might save me a night's loneliness. do this—or i swear on my soul to devour every inch of your virginal heart."

𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖗𝖔𝖘𝖊-𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝖌𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖘

𝐌arie Antonia—crowned queen of France 𝐀t age nineteen. Wedded to 𝐑oyal dauphin Louis-Auguste. 𝐈con of Rococo art and fashion. 𝐄ndowed with Austrian beauty. 𝐀dorned with every luxury at Versailles. 𝐍ever caressed by Louis XVI. Childless until 7 years. 𝐓urned to theatre. Flowers. A new lover. 𝐎blivious of the failing economy, and a rising coup. 𝐈ncriminated in the "Diamond Necklace" scoop. 𝐍icknamed by the French mob as "Madame Deficit". 𝐄xile failed. Falsely accused, arrested. 𝐓ried for her thievery to the treasury, and treason. 𝐓ransforming her hair into white, fearing her subsequent 𝐄xecution at the hands of Madame La Guillotine.

𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖎𝖆

Cotton seams Cold bed Linen men alighted on my father, Dead. Seized him in his dreams! They said. Well—the world could wait So I turned to slumber On my velvet bed Fancied myself a wanderer Without wings, Threading upon the fissure Between this world And the distant azure— Screaming his name. But the silence that came And these cotton clouds concealing my father Even pigeons who kept their peace Fluttering away like angels— I could not forgive. Almost did I give up the ghost When a sudden, cold wind Gave comfort to my skin. With it, a trail of black feathers In my reverie— A conspiracy of ravens welcomed me! Their concordant crow: "Little one, lonely one, Must you meet with your father So soon?" To this I pleaded, "Kind sirs, I care not Whether boon or bane Should befall me. But please, I wish to see him Before his wings flee." "Oh, you poor child, pitiful child," Squawked they, with a gleam In their brown eyes— Stealing glimpses of my dream, Knowing it was in my heart To be enticed. "Very well, then—if He Had not been as merciful as we, Then you need only follow The beating of our wings And that of your heart, And you would see Your father was home From the start." Our covenant sealed, The ravenous fiends circled my head As if I was dead. Quite a peculiar cadence to their pinions! I spun, disconcerted By the flurry of feathers That vanquished the view. A black veil had fallen On the vault of heaven. Moonlight. Mist. I emerged on the softness Of my cold, velvet bed Awakened from my stupor Upon hearing heavy footsteps By the stairs. Alas! The door flung open And miraculously— My father stood there! In the stead of linen, He sported his favourite jersey And a cap, crafted from cotton But I found it most curious That no nimbus or nose tube Could be seen— He looked just like how he had always been. A firm embrace. The dismissal of inquiries altogether. "Where had you gone?" I wanted to say But I gave leave to this mystery Fearing the smile on his face Would fade. Disturbance of my kindred Halted any utterance From my father. The children entered, smiling In a fashion similar To that of our visitor. How strange— The sight felt more eerie, Than endearing to me. My father... Many moons ago, you see Pyre had consumed his body And before it—the plague. The patient cot, a blue bed Had become his grave And I was given no leave For a final embrace. Toward this kind man From our clan The celestials had been covetous! To us, callous Yet his ashes were allowed To slumber, at home In a marble urn. To be remembered Like a hero of Greece Or warrior of China. A small mercy for his tragedy. This memory having sneaked Suspicion under my skin, I hastened downstairs And suffered to see, In horror— The vessel of our victor Still mounted there As well as the creaking sound Of my door upstairs. I fell On velvet, white veil. On the foot of his pedestal. "The black flock told the truth— You were here all along, Dad." My palm, Reposed on the pinnacle Of his warm, white marble And the figure, from the shadows Creeping closer— Something, I sensed Was being torn apart By the seams With its every tiptoe The staircase would crumble Like cotton Manifesting a fissure on the wall A fold with my hands A psalm, in my mind Praying the figure from light Would heed my call. But with only silence in the air And a slight crevice Opening on my cranium I fancied that I might never stir From this nightmare. "I see—" Heavy footsteps ceased to be. "A devil... had taken pity on me." I recoiled in terror At the nightmarish creature Towering behind me Summoned by me Whose façade of hellfire eyes And cold-blooded Crescent-moon mouth Wore, with it, the kind face Of the father I loved.

𝖋𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖊 𝖋𝖆𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖊

A cartographer with his compass Ventured upon the wild Where the prey must scurry fast Or join the nearby cadavers piled. And yet, this man was clearly dauntless Travelling the expanse of south and north ‘Til he covered east and west in the wilderness And lastly, into the fated den, he set forth. Before him, a lioness in all her glory With fierce orbs, rouged mane, skin of gold Though not in the least alarmed, still menacingly Lay beyond the traveler who paused to behold. “What a terribly beautiful beast!” Remarked he, with a gleam in his eye “Pray, she does not devour me as feast, And in turn, I shall make her mine.” The shadows all but faintly obscured The majestic profile of this regal creature “How akin to a queen, coy and elegantly postured, With a growl that resounded more of a ‘purr’!” To possess the entirety of this rare feline Our brave knight must call to duel A pack of lions from a royal line And emerge as the sole suitor, alive and well. Hereon, the globetrotter came out of hiding Revealing his presence to predatory eyes Only to produce a tool that seemed unbefitting For a weapon, much less a disguise. But there were no worries in his countenance As he seemed not too fearful for his existence! For he could lure this lady-lion into a trance While clutching a mere whistle in his hands. His rivals received the first blow, Deafened by a discordant screech— A bloodcurdling sound that would endlessly flow Through their system, lest they protest with speech. Like dominoes, the lions soon succumbed One by one, in dreadful slumber! And sleep, they did, ’til their senses went numb And none of them remained to guard her. All that’s left was to magically cast The golden prize under his wing And the queen, unaware of his wicked past, Entrusted her paw to the new king. Entrapped by the beckoning Of a siren, perhaps, or Apollo’s muse The lioness was entirely fooled by the lilting Mimicry of heaven under his clever ruse. The man’s sorcery thus went as planned As he proceeded to bury himself in her fur, Fondly caressing her tail with his hand, “My pet, your new life awaits only pleasure!” Such was a lie—a recurring pill he would swallow For the hunter, who mastered and mapped out Every inch of the beast (apart from her sooner sorrow) Had never foreseen his tragic route. The fiend instilled upon her the harsh ways Necessitated by the circus troupe he led So that the treachery eventually lifted the haze Enveloping the lioness’ bewitched head. Helpless at his whip, chained, then caged The beast relinquished her gentle nature For a threatening aura enflamed by rage— A malady that no magic could ever cure. And such was how the cruel ringmaster, With his maps, missions, and malediction, Had come to meet his demise, a few days later In the beautiful, bloodied paws of redemption.

𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖎

Twenty days. A maiden Would carry a tiny spade To the forest glade, Crowning said Eden Of peonies, lilies, and roses, On her hair. Princess To flowers! Fair nurse Digging pits, for pretty seeds Devoid of all weeds. Sunrise in her eyes. They weep, too—camellia girl Till petals unfurl. A cherry blossom Falling. Fleeting Black Dahlia Spurning ambrosia. Red spider lily. Belladonna. Beauty—gone On the twenty-one. Farewell, Arcadia. An abyss at the middle, Laid bare by shovel, Lures the lovely maid Away from the flowerbed To her own deathbed. Unearthly embrace! The pulp of forbidden fruit On her tainted tooth. But her soul is root Of magic. Saint to meadow— Fairy ring, hollowed.

𝖇𝖊𝖊𝖑𝖟𝖊𝖇𝖚𝖇𝖇𝖑𝖊𝖘

Skinned maiden, clad in none, Save for the scent of candles, Sinks her flesh in a cauldron Seething crimson, soaked petals. Cake of cream on cherry coil Chipped by claws, the chiffon bust Crumbles—soda spirits boil Softening skin smelled of rust! “Cleanse her of Lucy!” he pleads For her soul, an incantation To drain all her sinful deeds With soap, and immolation. Python palms slither all over This sorceress of Salem, Struggling not whilst they slather Her bosom, bud, with mayhem. How frothy milk from her mouth Falls down her slippery slope, And blazes with bubbles south, Binds the brewed beauty like rope! Her frame’s further fizz and foam Latching on, back to the tide Have melted mess—skin and bone Of his sacrificial bride. Downpour on the dead damsel, Whose demons drowned with ashes, Doused inferno back to hell— A fate that awaits witches. Curious! See, the exorcist (Climbing his way to the tub) Bathes in the cremated’s midst— A tomb filled with human grub!

black haired Yoshiwara Anri

𝖕𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖘𝖒𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖆

:  a form of horror theatre that (among other techniques) used one or more magic lanterns to project frightening images, such as skeletons, demons, and ghosts, onto walls, smoke, or semi-transparent screens, typically using rear projection to keep the lantern out of sight.

:  changing successions or combinations of fantastic, bizarre, or imagined imagery.