The Profane

The profane feeds on love, tearing at the soul like a hungry wolf. The sense of honor and justice devoured and dismembered in one of the most heinous crimes. From the remains now rises the soulless being, who has nothing left to lose. With empty eyes, he no longer sees the colors of his world, glazed in his gaze, a dense gray fog that hangs over those devoured by the profane, moves slowly above the quick steps and the truculent noises, of the enemies of time. Inhibiting the vital energy that leaks out of your pores, like an almost empty hourglass, imperceptible to those who ignore the truth and are satisfied with lies. The profane hangs on another soul, feeding, without ever being satiated. Death no longer symbolizes an end, but a new beginning. A hope that agonizes slowly, almost inertly, due to the conception of those who still feel the heat of humanity.