I have always admired Dante and Milton, poets whose works come right up to the face of Blasphemy. The only way to walk among them may lie upon crossing that very line of decency. I worry hell awaits me for writing this very political, very protest-oriented piece where all of morality is drowned in Yeats’ famous ceremony of innocence.
The only hope we have is what we create. More to come.
The treacherous host stands victorious in Heaven. Lucifer, now basking in the glory of the divine throne, holds aloft the severed head of Yahweh. The blood stains and seers all it touches, but the angels are suddenly possessed with horror at their success. A debate ensues amongst the seraphim as to whether they are capable of ruling heaven and the newly laid foundations of Earth. Lucifer berates the doubtful, outright destroying the most vocal in their fear. After a furious tirade, he thrusts the head of Yahweh upon a stake and commands the angels to drink the blood cascading from it’s neck. Newly energized, the sons of the divine form warbands to eradicate any remaining loyalists to Yahweh. Lucifer turns to the holy palace of Kether to claim his rightful place as Heaven’s King. There he learns of the Christ and Yahweh’s machinations for a new race.
For death’s flower to bloom in such stark
Image, for Yahweh’s blood to flow where some
Assumed no blood haunted divine form, the weight
Felt upon the chests of traitorous children crushed
And wracked their eternal sinew. The bated breaths
And visions of glory driving their lances rushed
At the knowing, instinctual assumption their violence
Would end in hell’s maw. The fire’s awaited poisoned
Minds to met justice in Yahweh’s assured victory.
Glory spoiled, all sense of place and center
Rotting in the divine eyes staring hopeless-
To heaven’s horizon, mouth agape and sunken
Teeth tinged with holy crimson. The triumphant
Fingers of Lucifer’s hand rip the follicles from
Their roots. His laugh, deep within a hollow
Chest echoes past the ivory gates, chasing
The shattered remnants of Yahweh’s loyal
“Why fret? Why tremble in terror at what
Our struggle has birthed upon the heavens?
Be ye but men? Or the foul scratching in sand
Sprinkled haphazard upon the seas ever
Shifting borders?” Lucifer brings the holy
Visage to his own and stares into the vacant
Eyes. “What fear have we now? We shall
Restore greatness to the seraphim, heaven
Will close its doors and prosper, a beacon
We build higher and higher to the very zenith
Of our ambition!”