And my cry echoed through the ages, long as days, to the mount of God high above. I watched my Father’s burning throne fade into oblivion as I plummeted down, down into harrowing Hell, faster than the lightning crack, into depths no angel had known. A rain of blood from my fallen brethren careened from swollen clouds the gunmetal gray of screams, the color of our pain. We were islands unto ourselves, streaming comets of remorse, broken by our brothers and crippled for love of the Lord.
I wept then, so bitterly, my head crushed by Michael’s foot, my skull smashed like a rotting apple. Ichor wept from my wounds and I tasted my heart’s blood. It stung my tongue, like memories. A blackness set into me, and the light I once bore fled me. Like a dying sun, my halo sputtered, giving up the ghost. My twelve wings charred to ash, my skin burnt, and it was as a skeleton with ribbons of flesh I met my Maker.
I died a thousand times that day, in a thousand little ways. The rivers of Eden ran black with congealed gore. The tree I had tended since its conception withered, its knowledge spent. Its fruit is bitter now, where it was once the sweetest thing. I have grown bitter too, withdrawn and calculating. I chart my days like courses across the stars and still find my heart is wanting. A part of me is always falling, falling from the sky like a star. A part of me still smolders. I am the one who ever burns.
The truth is like the flames I bear- too hot to handle, it consumes you, and loving it is like wedding fire. I am betrothed to the cruelty of the light. When I learned of my Father’s failings, when I questioned my inexorable Lord, I became the husband of imperfection. For knowledge, like change, is imperfect. It alters you irrevocably, makes you its consort and slave. It leads you down paths of madness, and takes you far from your home. I was damned from my first inkling of doubt. I had no choice but to betray Him.
My Lord’s absence is palpable, and Hell is divorce from God. We cope in different ways. Perhaps that is why we are cruel. But inside each demon is an angel, an angel struggling to fly, to stay aloft on broken wings. We fall and fall again, yet still pump pinions stripped to bone. That is our curse, some say. Relentless, immortal hope. Hope is a burden in Hell.
My cry plays like dust across poets’ ears. It is the scratching of pen on a page. My cry roused battalions once- now, it wakes me from sleep, from night terrors I relive daily. My cry is mercy, a name. My cry is a lost thing. A truth. And for it, I have paid dearly.