Illusion of Fate by Dolor

It was the only place near the beach. Wasted away completely,it was once a beautiful paradise for fools alike.
Blisters spread openly against the rocky terrain, bits of sand being torn to nothing in the gusts of
pacific wind. The rushing tides are a thing of the past, now reduced to mere puddles in the dusty gravel.
Such an utopic sanctuary is squandered by the impurities of nature, and her wild beasts. The sands of time
stop at once, as rock chips off nearby boulders into puddles of unwavering despair.

Passerby unusual and distant, these shores are forever cursed by an invisible plague of gossipped
terror and devilry. The curses change from one to another, as the talk of the town fluctuates unwillingly.
Stoned crocolisks and forsaken imps rampantly intrude throughout the caves of the dried well. The fake-lore
of the town tells passerby that one bite from a brute crocolisk will carry through your veins a disease unlike any other.
A disease that rots out hearts, and captures souls within decomposing corpses so to suffer for eternity without rest.
An imp's gaze freezes its victim and all too suddenly fade out of the world as shattered blocks of ice
crash to the ground. From death's immense powers over the cracked and scorched valleys that once were sandstruck beaches
and blazes of abundant waters, it has presently created an oppressed fear and doubt in the villages of the impure.

But it is fate. Control must be secured within the townspeople's hearts, or emotions have no meaning, no interests in anything.
Crashing like the smack of the striking singes of the gusts of wind. It takes hold, takes control.
Taking control is too much for the townspeople, showing their lack of interest openly in fate, the cosmos, and
everything. All that fuels them is fear of a disenchanted beach, off the side of a blistered and abandoned road in the deeps of nothingness,
forsaken truths foretold and exchanged, changing truth and lies into lies and truth.

I can hear the tide, but it will never come. It will never wash away these insecurities, fears, broken promises, debt, and servitude.
Loathsome am I, an ill-gotten troll of gossipping hags in a place far worse than this cursed dried-up stone beach.
Every place is of the devil now. Every thing will dry up and wither away, as will their souls. I feel the gusts of sand and wind
beat at my face. It is time to find new life, new promises, and break my bonds of servitude to the crooked fiends of the past.
It is time to live anew in my perfect wasteland.