Chilperic’s skin was as cold as the dry winters ruling the hills, his cheeks as red as every drop of blood he could spill.
He was birthed on the highest mountain, and the deepest cave felt his first breath chilling.
He spoke as if the fire of his words alone could kill a god.
His face was made of all he knows, none was spared, like a crow remembering the world through lenses of rooted violence and flying thrills, of wars birthed out of sacrifices and regrets.
Smarter than any devils made out of despair, sweeter than the last spring heaven and hell has ever known .
Honey and Copper has never been as beautiful than on the taste of his lips, imbedded in the flesh of his palms.
Have you loved all that you were given ?
Would you do it twice, if not for the price, if not for the pain ?
Where will you rest ?
The damned are too good to host your wicked ways, child.
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