The Palanquin Of Thirteen Machetes

Traipsing over the glistening sand of the ominous desert, the mantle-draped crowned head caresses the estranged digits of his two ladies. His mantle is fettered to his navel, so profoundly that a dash of skirt has emerged, bestowing the king an obscene femininity.
With a jiggling belly, his petrified iris beholds at the desolation of the firmament and the trepidation of his pounding heart. As the teeth nip his lips, the phalanges perceive a void erupted whilst the ladies ebb away in the sand of reasoning. Having reached a puddle, the gentle monarch takes a dekko at the synchronized paddling of canvasbacks, with the naïve brood imitating its progenitress.
To the disbelief of king, none of the male ducklings created the distinctive female loud quack. In the midst of everything, the sky gets festooned with an abendrot, encapsulating an uncanny bitterness. The king commences to feel the manacles fastening his ankles as he heads for the vantage point of the fleeting vista.
The freed lapis lazuli of his crown clings to the forehead making a belle yet extrinsic Bindi. Withholding the tears of uncertainty and despondency, the benevolent man is hauled against the sand. When the eclipsed moon rises breaching the tattered and poisoned chambers of the fem king’s heart, even the heavens sprinkle showers to express their melancholia.
Absorbed within the agony and reprimands, he sees an enclosed litter laid over the turf of precipice, cocooned with a didactic fresco showcasing the infamous Hermaphroditus. Bolstered by two gilded wooden poles, the palanquin appears firm. The only apprehensive facet about the palanquin was the bearers.
A strapping middle-aged man glares with dark and blood-ridden eyes at the static monarch with utter obstinacy. He is sojourned at the left of the enigmatic palanquin. The king could see the inflexible stubbornness in the man’s eyes. To the right stood a female bigot who seemed to have endured a lot.
Her emaciated bod and a relatively short stature make the king insecure. The two pull the palanquin, helping it levitate from the fugacious nature. The monarch looks at the quavering litter as the two bear it with trembling feet and a slippery account of reasoning for the king’s effeminacy.
As the king reaches out for the weary curtains of the vehicle amidst the murk sight of non-serviceable porters, his gesture gets occluded by a whiff of petrichor which swirls the curtains to divulge the gloom inside. Having dejected by the unceasingly deep darkness inside the core of the palanquin, the monarch hears to the orders of the bearers prompting him to ensconce inside.
Losing sagacity, the king perceives a blow of dark wind which elicits thirteen machetes out of the black hole. They rush towards the king’s belly, ripping it apart, letting the inside ooze out. With tears of repression, the agonized head beholds at his rainbow-colored blood.