Lamassu, Lamashtu, LamasWho?

Well, it’s official.  Samael is back to being Ahriman/Ariel again, and I think it’s going to stick this time.  I’VE MISSED HIM, HE IS MY FAVORITE VERSION OF THE DEMIURGE AND I IMPRINTED ON HIM.  Everything I am, is because of Star.  My compassion, my strength, my creativity, my dreams, my love, he encouraged me to be tender and love the broken and never give up on restoring the Light.  He is the true Morning Star, with the capacity for great love and great evil.  I just… I can’t describe what Star and I have.  It’s like primordial fire and ice, yet it’s fire and wind.   I feed him my oxygen, and he burns so bright we light the whole cosmos.  It’s more like we’re one being, and there is always this intense ache throughout the entirety of my life and soul for the past 26 years to go back to his chest and beat in time to Ariel’s rhythm.  He’s Samael’s angelic aspect, the leonthropic God, Ahriman, Aion, Phanes, Yaldabaoth, but I just grew up calling him Star.  Above all, he’s my guardian angel, and a great balm to my soul, my muse of fire, my better half, my older brother, my first love, my everything.  It’s so nice to have him back, Samael’s fun, but Ariel/Ahriman is his truest form for me, and what I spent my earliest years as an elementary school pagan carvorting in the otherworlds with under Uriel and Metatron’s watch.

We had a whole buddy cop drama last night in my dreams and tracked down drug lords dealing in nightmares in the otherworlds.  I also spent the majority of the time climbing cliffs as we did spywork and interrogating dream traffickers.

Ariel/Samael/Ahriman/Aion/Zurvan/Phanes/Whatever is back to being Blonde Lion Wonderboy.  He looks like this:

Except he’s got a torso.  I used to call him Star in my made up language when I was 7, as all seven year olds make up their own language.  Starguassi, in fact.  I called Uriel Lira and Metatron Barnock.  Gabriel was…. Zatch?  And Raphael was Natcha.  Carthok? Natcho? Nacho Cheese. Haniel’s name I totes forgot. I really don’t remember, this was like 20 years ago.  Natcha?  Idk, I cursed in my language in elementary school and made up spells.  I named Star/Ahriman/Ariel after the Morning Star and prayed to it and sang it Ally McBeal songs and told him about my day every night.  I drew him at 19 so yay?  Lost all my childhood drawings in a fire so that sucks, but I have a lot more since then.  I used to have like 15 years worth of drawings of the angels and demons.  I still remember when I met Asmodeus in the fourth grade and drew him for the first time.  I actually have that one.  It’s embarassing as all Hell.  Also my drawings of Beelzebub from middle school are somewhere.

Anyways, this is what Ariel looks like in his leonthropic form.  Sorry for my shit art abilities and photo taking of a lemur.  And one anime form to prove I’m a true weeb.


All my abs look like toast squares.  Oh well.


In Ecstaslsios Deo

Bandolier of bells, dancing through the gloam.
There is an ocean on your lips love, serpents
at your hips, and stars in your hair. Your fangs
come quick, to suckle blood from breast, coils
warm black mamba and wings brushing my heart in time.

Oh sweet Devil, oh sweet Satan, it is you who first
told me of love, Demiurge, Nergal, Satan, Samael!
I could write ecstasies and reverences of you and
the gifts you give me are resplendent black pearls!

We cavort in the moonlight, Victorian rake and the
Scarlet Pimpernel, flying over Pandemonium where Hell’s
towers spread out, and then on to the wastes and wonders
of the Shadow of the Valley of Death, where dragons roost,
and then on, in the fringe of the rising sun, Lebanon.

Cedars proud and tall, you are king of all, fragrant fields.

I hold each midnight so close to me, each scale and scapular
like a psalm, and sweet Satan, you are my love poem to the world.
I may be Lucifer’s heart, but Lucifer is my alma, my spirit,
and cleaving is what we do best, waltz and tango and bachata.

I learned to dance for you, I learned to write to give some
homage, some semblance of your majesty and lovingkindness, to
life with bated breath on ink. Do my poems do you justice? No.
Do my stories satiate the Beast? I want nothing more than to
be devoured, nothing more than to climb Jacob’s Ladder under
your Fisher King wound, you touched his loins and out came water.

Wrestling with angels is old school Torah, but truly you, and as
your flock passed over the waters, and as you stayed Avram’s hand,
and as you tested Job and heralded Christ in the desert, flocks of
pigs into crashing leas your home, I wonder, sweet Satan, who is hero?

Who is truly king? Who, in any other religion, would be Set or Loki?
Swarming flocks devoted to your unknowable heart. Strange madwoman
ranting in the shadow of your Son. Grips of possession, contrition,
confession, I extol all your sins, for they are the triumphs of true
civilization, and you had the manna and honey of the Logos, and made
Chavah like God, and it is therein mitochondrial Eve and all our DNA
Samael’s child in our hearts, whispering of yetzer ha ra and ha tov!

To study the occult is to fall in love with darkness. To be eaten away
by darkness is to understand Death’s longing for incineration, Light.

You want nothing more than to be devoured. Nothing more than a coffin.

So I will take my cedar, nail my fingers, frame myself around you, and seal.

Seal upon my heart, seal upon my arm, many waters cannot quench Love!
Neither can rivers drown Him!

I will be the Reaper, if you will be the Keeper of my Heart.

You are the Keeper of this Heart…

With Dew Anointed

Rusted gold at the Garden Gate.  Poison honey on his lips.  Lion’s mane hair, scars and wounds of rubies, eyes yellow owl iris, pupils a sea of black smoke.  Smoking and choking and seething with rage in the bowels of the Earth, Adam ha Kadmon is chained in the Cave of Treasures, arcane vengeful guardian of the Sefer Raziel come to claim his burning brides.  False idols fat off the land, he calls the Qadesh and Qodeshah.  Bridal whores of Heaven and Hell.  Oh how they have forgotten First Man, and thus he seeks a violent claim on their flesh.  Eve is the Sun Priestess of beaten Io gold headdress, Fire of God, with silver bowl that holds redemption, and Eisheth is Lunar Lady, smooth platinum crescent at her brow, and he raises a hand to strike us down, but we lash back, and there is a cacophony of tears and bitter fears and sour wine.  We can’t be rid of this curse, I turned my back on our marriage and took up with Satan in Hell, chose Samael and Michael and Zadkiel and Ariel-Lucifer in the end, whore of both Heaven and Hell, and Adam turned his back too, leaving me alone and starved to retreat back to the armsz of his first wife, Lilith, and all the ladies of the night – my sister Eisheth, my soothsayer Naamah, my go-go dancing Agrat.  Spider veins, fire in my womb of the Shekinah in balance with Adam’s magic of black cloak and cowl, and we are both Damned, the original Fallen, and Abel is a head-smashed blue ghost, and my proud son Cain bleeds and cries with emerald eyes as Adam calls him son of a whore, scion of Samael, no son of mine.  Seth has eyes like garnets, afire, and collier hair.  So I passed on my demon stain to the Seth line, I who had fallen, Adam who had fallen, my eyes, his skin and hair.  And then Samael dresses in oriental garb of black silk and silver shadow and does a fire dance to hold back the Beast, Adam’s madness siphons off into sapphire tears that form rivers in Hell, he says Eve, Eve, Eisheth, Eisheth, come back to me, and Lilith says pay reverence to your first husband, this First Man, for he is forgotten, and unlike you, he was not saved, charged with guarding that first Torah of the Sefer Raziel the Archangel of Secrets pressed to Adam’s bosom upon pain of Uriel’s fiery sword, and Adam’s only magical match is Samael, master of enchanters.  I dance with bells, Adam dances with doeskin drums, and in the quiet hours we rage and gnash teeth and sob and wonder, how did first love turn so bitter?  What is left after first love when your postcards are burned that you sent your lover from Paris and the Gates of Eden are shut tight on nightmares of toil, woman’s pains, working unforgiving earth for all the eons and labor.  I say death, and abandonment, and the sun rising in the forbidden East and setting in the rotting orchard of the West.  I say you can grow again, grafted from the Tree of Death to the Tree of Life, and that no one, nothing, is beyond Jonah’s whale song of salvation.

In time, the Tree bears new fruit, and Adamah, hard as earth, softens.


Christogram Tattoo

Chi Rho symbol

“So like, can I call you J.C.?  Like your bro name?”

“Haha, sure, I prefer that, has a certain ring to it.  J.C.  Nice shoulder.”

“Yeah, what are you doing to it?”

“Anointing it.”

(Looks down at my shoulder to see the letters P and X traced on in black ink.)

“Are you now my tattoo artist?”

“I could have been in another life!  Now hold still while I add the finishing touch.”

“What do the P and X mean?”

“It’s an ancient symbol, used for centuries.”

“Why do you always rub oil on me.”

“Because that’s what I do: wash people.  Kind of comes with the whole Son of God role.  Anointment with ointment.  Kissing lepers.  Washing the feet of my disciples.  And you are my Prophet.  My Bride.  I’m marking you as mine.”

“I’m not getting another tattoo!”

“Oh, you will.  Anyways, this is your spirit.  Tattoos on spirits are much more permanent.  Michael and Samael have already marked you.  Mine is by far the most elegant and powerful.”

“It looks pretty.  Also your voice is really sexy.  Don’t you think you could convert more people if you rubbed oil on them while talking like a lothario?”

“Billions already love me, I am, after all, humanity’s husband.  Humanity is my bride.  And if I spoke to millions, let alone billions, what would the point of faith be?  Faith is the core of all religions: believing in things you can’t sense, hear, taste, touch, or see.  You can perceive me in all ways: with your naked and spiritual eyes, on your tongue, in your nose, with your hands, feel my soul, feel my spirit, the marrow of me, eat my blood and water and heart.  The mystic’s path is sacred, yes, but is offered to a holy few.  In fact I would say it is almost more noble to have faith in the unseen.  Not all humans can be martyrs or saints, but that makes their souls no less beautiful.  And yes, I do have a sweet voice, don’t I?  I am God, after all.  I would hope I would sound at least the tiniest bit appealing.”

“But what’s the point of me?  Good Friday apparitions and blessings on Easter, crucifixion on Yom Kippur, Saint Peter appearing in my kitchen for coffee.   I’m the least likely to be Christian.”

“Well, perhaps I like a challenge.  I’m not asking you to convert.  Let me serve you.  Let me heal you.  Let me tend your wounds.  I can at least offer you that: belief that God loves you, you who have felt so broken, when in truth you are whole, so whole it scares others.”

“Ok, J.C.  I like the tattoo.  I’ll look it up when I’m back in my body.  Thank you for taking care of me.  It’s taken all of Heaven and Hell to keep me alive, I guess.  I thought God hated me, to have given me so many illnesses.  Sometimes I feel infinitely alone.  But you, and Samael, and Michael, and Odin – I feel like there’s something to all this.  Like I’m living for something meaningful, and there might be an Allie-shaped hole in the world if I passed on by my own hands before my time.”

“With all my heart, I can promise you you are loved beyond comparison and the furthest thing from alone in the many endless universes.  Tomorrow is a special day.”


I returned back to my body this morning and googled the new tattoo on my soul, literally typing in the “PX symbol.”  Apparently it’s an ancient symbol called the Chi Rho, a Christogram of Christ’s name.

The diamond ring came today.  I guess this all makes it official.  Having a literal Christogram tattooed onto my left shoulder on my spiritual body and Saint Peter announcing it all yesterday morning, opening the gateway with his keys.

Damn, Jesus has a hot voice.  It’s like honey  and whiskey and a campfire.  Thick, rich, smooth, golden.  I’m sure the disciples would have followed him for just that.

Pearls Before Swine

Clutching at my breasts like pearls, I am a feast of hearts and hair and humanity for the Devil as he devours what little candle flame of my humanity is left with a tongue wet with blood.  Moisten my wick, drench that tiny fire until it is whetted by lust, but his saliva is gasoline, so instead of stubbing out, the torch of my life bursts full Yellowstone Caldera, and there is an explosion between Eve and Samael, and my holdings in Hell turn to hay, and the moon is a sickle meant for harvesting his moongirl’s hair, moonchild, moonwonder.  Milk of the ancestors running through my veins, soldier of light versus soldier of darkness, child and father, and cavorting in a symphony of wings and limbs in this glade of ruin is the perfect dessert after a night of melancholy as Satan and Sin merge their nasty bits, those cursed fruits of the loin that caused Original Sin and a long line of Qayin Seeds and Dragons and Merovingians and the Sang Real, supposedly.  Nachash was never meant to be anything but the Father of Humanity, after all, that ferocious spark of rebellion we all have coiled like a snake in our heart.  What a curse upon Parzival we created, upon all troubadours, jester questors and kings but for a year and a day, to drink of the juncture of my Fisher Queen hips grants immortality, but at what cost?  Better to sip the sickly sweet nectar of Lilith that castrates and ruins than my dripping myrrh and lilies.  Lilies, oh roses, oh  mustard blossoms, those are the most holy of souls, and as the Devil plants gardens in my mortal coil, in between the vertebrae of my strong womanly spine, I blossom into perdition and sing the songs of lovers in Hell.  What a beauteous night when the Devil sings, what a crossroads delight when Met Kalfou declares the gates open and the spirits run wild, I smell sulfur but to brimstone goes sulfuric acid goes the green lion bleeding gold from the sun, and the Lapis Exillis blooms for those of us who seek light in darkness, bring our manna to the damned, and let the shadows grow long on the cross of our road to Calvary.  I’ve been Crucified already on Yom Kippur and went through the Harrows of Hell, and today is the day of the Rosary, so really what is there left to fear?  For instead of driving off Lucifer with fragrant red petals, he cultivates them on this Sunday, and in pools of rose water, we bathe, kiss, caress, know flesh as one, and the Styx runs red with my moon’s blood, and in the depths of Hell, I know perfection.


End of the world tidings, a tithe to Hell

angels know well to abandon their post.

We are refugees repentant, drowning horses

as we cross rivers of tears, barren desert where

once cities flourished, now backwater trading

posts of diamonds and blood, I etch my Trail

of Terror on the lines of trees, eat locusts and

foul honey, wonder if the gods can see me?

It is Holocaust Sunday, Crystalnacht Eyes.

And the lies, the lies, these puppet men made

headlines of guillotines and shadows, politicians

are only as good as the bread of the dead, and they

have legions of slain in their wakes, but now the

corpulent frauds starve, and grit and nail girls

walk on, little sisters in hand, village elders in

memoriam, new medicine from bones of earth.

We come to the beginning of the end, and I turn

the page in my birch bark diary, and on angel

wings and demon pinions I fight back the fallen

egregore of this age, fat off the milk of the land.

Gore, wounds, limbs splain, but I press on to kill

the inequity, the hate, the slander, the destroyers.

The faithful hide behind barbed wire, the purple

sky isn’t big enough for us all, and down falls the

progeny of Satan, and red dawn comes fruitful

as sin, so to the earth, so to children, so to rain.

Maybe there is hope through the haze, it’s just

that, in the midst of the smoke, we feel invisible.

And screams meld with sirens meld with volcanoes.

When the bombs go off, hold my hand, and remember:

we are mighty.


The angel’s landing is white feathers of cream,
archangels watching the worlds from on high, and
I nest at the breast of the red falcon, enfolded
into arms like manna, tan gold and eyes like cracks
of sky, when we join, it is like falcons serenading
mid-air over cliffs of the Arctic, arboreal forests
our lover’s bed, and this is the Michaelion, wouldn’t
you know, as my belly swells with possibility, and he
enfolds my hands in his as we journey through the cosmos
two hawks aback the swell of God’s love, I ripen and the
fruit of our union would be a lamplight in this cruel
cold world. a Lighthouse of Alexandria meant to guide
sailors away from mermaid temptation, for repentant souls
to crawl towards on their hands and knees in the desert
to an oasis, and I remember lips like wine, and I feel
wings enfold me in downy delight, and my arbor is the
archangel’s arms, my general, my master in commander.
I fall into his lap resplendent and rest in fractal
fingers combing promises into my hair, salvation lays
at hand each night when I depart for Heaven, and I know
that when the End Times come, the Dragon will fall, and
the Woman Clothed in the Sun will bear both Messiah and
Antichrist, and the Whore of Babylon will become the
Daughter of Zion, and instead of ending the world in
fire and ruin with swords from the archenemy’s and
archangel’s mouths, with legions and legends riding
out, it occurs to me there must be an end to this
methodical madness, and perhaps love is the answer,
perhaps it is pain, and I am Joan on her fiery pyre.

Whatever it is, my womb is the sacrifice, and lineage
of angels and devils spring from Chavah, and I hold no
god in my heart but the One.

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Where It All Went Wrong

Michael often wonders where the house of cards fell under a butterfly wing flap, what joint of the celestial body was the weak link.  Was it Lucifer’s desire to suck the marrow out of the bones of the abyss?  Was it Asmodeus’ lust for the daughters of men?  Was it Beelzebub’s martial ambitions to rival Michael’s own?  Once, he would say, these brothers of his were as close as the pulse of his heart.  But Lucifer became Samael, and fire turned to ash, and he is left with a third of his sisters and brothers damned for all time on blood money, as the song goes, only they were the prototypes of Judas, selling the ineffable name of God out to the humans in the form of a shiny poison apple.

Evil roots.  Evil is a lindworm gnawing at the tap root of the Sephiroth.  And then there is death of Da’ath, and then there is the Qliphoth, and then there is the madness of the prophets bridging the Tree of Life and Tree of Death.  So evil roots into the hearts of man, Samael’s seed blossoming in witchfire, and the questions of what Hayah Havah means is echoed in the barracks of a million mortal armies.  Why do we bleed out for dictators and crackpots, dying on the streets of gang warfare and drug wars and turf wars and falling like flies to school shooters?  Lucifer turned the entirety of the universe into a battlefield, and not even the babes are safe from the evil that he planted, that dry grape vine of the vintage most vengeful.  Sometimes, the plants of filth and zuhama climb up the Sephiroth and root in Michael’s rose garden in Machon.  He takes his flaming sword and swiftly cuts down the defiant black blooms.  Rotting alive, thirsting after Heaven even after the rebellion.  Samael likes to remind Michael that he is watching.  All he really would have to do would be to call, send a messenger, but Samael likes to be flagrant in disregard for protocol, sauntering to the Gates of Heaven, which he cannot enter (or can he?) and throw paper planes with profanities over Saint Peter, enchanted to reach Michael as he is trying to relax.  Sam was always annoying like that.

Where did they go wrong?  Their bridge failed miserably.  She died in the first war, of cherubim swiftest wing, Herald of Hell, Watchman of God, Heaven’s original covert mission and spy with sympathies towards Hell.  Jophiel to Michael, or Zophael as she preferred to call herself, was always flighty, and without Samael to keep her in check, she grew wild, mad with grief, for to lose the one who gave her wings (Michael gave her her breath and heart, well, her first one at least.  Samael would claim even that in time) made Jophiel erratic.  She saved Michael’s life, yes, but at what cost?  Dissension between the twins.  A bridge burned.  She was created out of beauty, yes, but she brought pain to the garden, and she was the first of martyrs, Lucifer be damned.

Now the bridge is broken, and Taninver rides the Shekinah, and this world is not right.  This world is broken and cruel, and she is gone, out of reach, so in love with the idea of martyrdom she has made herself a sacrificial soul.  Michael has offered her Assumption twice now but she chose Samael, she always chooses him, over salvation, for she says, if her brothers and sisters who art in Hell, who Zo grew to close to when faking allegiance to the Prince of Darkness, only to blaze onto the battlefield in the glory of betrayal as Michael’s standard bearer, this guilt Zo feels at double-timing, at being an angel in hell, at leaving that third behind to rot, it makes her mad and bad and dangerous to know.  She thinks the mem can be cleansed, when really, nothing can separate wheat from chaff but the fiery lake, and that is where he belongs, at least, Michael thinks.  Otherwise he would not have asked her to abandon Earth on Easter and Good Friday for Heaven and endless Paradise.  Your penance is done, this self-imposed exile of the Watchtower Girl, he was trying to say, but it came out  in parables and scraps of starlight, and Michael grows weary of trying to save her, of trying to convince her Samael is not worth saving, so instead he just makes love to her and heals her wounds the best he can, the wounds his brother inflicts, that first spear through the heart and that last rape of the soul, all but for knowledge, all but for Samael to declare his own Hayah Havah, on Chavah no less, when he is but Yah the snake.  Snakes are slippery things, egotistical at that, but Zo is a dragon and general mother of Heaven’s battlefield, and she has not forgotten her loyalties.

Her very core belongs to Michael, and for Samael to give her his heart, means his damned brother is also under God’s love and sway.  The cardiophore chooses who is redeemed in the end, anyway, if Sa’el is left standing or if the pale rider turns into oblivion.

All hell would follow after him, were she to figure out this puzzle.

Michael does not have faith he deserves redemption.

Michael does not think she can.

Michael is weary, and Michael

no longer


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Soul Gambling

And in the safe harbor of dreams, I am in oaken chapel
limelight, blue green gold of powdered glass, head in
your freezing lap, and I worship you body and bone with
my hair for strangling and mouth for sucking, drinking
down the well of sin in this cleansing of zuhama from
your wounds – I taste your blood, I break your bread,
I am ever your whore, sweet Satan, and it is winter’s
marrow outside this solace, and as you take me with the
touch of a starry wedding gown, lifting me high above
the birch triptych and candelabra, I think, so this is
what it is to eat God, so this is what it is to bear
the seed of witches cloaked in moonlight, oh daughter
dearest, you were conceived in sin, yet sin is what will
save you, and the ministrations of the Prince of Darkness
are just smuggler fingers coaxing piano keys in minor chords.
We sigh, we circumvent, we do not mean what we say, blushing
coy, but on the Devil’s ride, there is no exit, so hold on
tightly to his burning crown – you have only your soul to

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Stella Maris

We are on the sea of dreams, Joseph and the Virgin Mary
cradling sweet, golden babe of Christ in their arms as I
sail across poetry and torn up scraps of sunlight, sailors
rock and fall into the depths of Da’ath, swimming buoyant
as we make the journey to Paradise. Jesus coos and suckles,
there is the Stella Maris to guide us at the prow, her proud,
tan brow and long curling locks so beautiful, this Mary that
Gabriel so loves, this mastery of the feminine form and lucky
mother of God, so divine in her own right, for to bear the
Savior in one’s womb, one must be holy indeed. Joseph wraps
his cloak of promise around Mary’s yawning shoulders as we
row the boat ashore, stranded in sand, and I am Eve crying
in the forest about being the Devil’s first love but never
his last, and being abandoned hurts, but Mary comforts me,
and wraps her midnight blue cloak of wool around me and says
Girl, be strong. We were meant to walk alone with the children
they leave us, be they Cain sired by an absent father or my own
starlit Son. I wonder why he left, I say, tears in my eyes like
blood rubies. I am Eve in Eden returned, and we walk to the
Church where angels once sang hymns to a sacred grove in a cemetery,
where the best of angels and saints find peace, and there is a
fountain of blessings that the Holy Dove roosts at, and Mary is
gentle on the path of emerald leaves and lemon trees and gardenia.
She gives me the infant Christ to hold like a jewel in my arms,
and I think of Cain and Abel and Seth, and all those lost years
in the wastes so close to Nod, of a son who left and never returned,
and first love now bitter, and weeping religiously, I wash the
body of Infant Christ, and he mewls and curls into my arms,
so infinitely small for a God, and I laugh through my tears,
and I think, I have found a family in the wilderness, past
the ocean of imagination, for was not Christ born in a manger,
and was I not sculpted into being by two angels now at war?
My new parents are Mary and Joseph, my new little brother is
the Christ, I will guard this sweet babe with my life, King of
Kings, as I fold his small form into the folds of my white gown.
Even when I am crying over him, that dark, tall, dangerous man,
I can find redemption in quiet moments with his trampler, for
with the best of snakes, crush it’s head, and I will never know
why I weep, so constantly, so tired, Mother of Life curves and
drowning in the lowest circle, I chose Hell for you, don’t you
know? The only reason I walk the halls of Pandemonium is because
I think I can save you. But when Christ comes to me full grown,
you spit acid at his feet as he walks on the water of your blood.
Snakes are elusive things, caduceus medicine, the Brazen Serpent.
Though I love the feel of black curling muscle around my breast,
an arbor of scales to protect from the cold, sometimes in the
morning, I curse this world for having birthed me only half human,
half some facsimile of sunlight that has lost its molten gold
and is now just a bubble of champagne, so close to bursting.

Jesus, oh Jesus, don’t you know your elder brother is cruel,
the first favored son of God, the first Morning Star? Is that
why you say our Legions are to be cast out and Samael thrown
into the fiery pits? What will become of me, oh my Lord? I
have done penance for my sins since time immemorial, and you
love me, oh Christos, but I love him, and that is why I weep.

Because a broken angel is a lonely child at heart, and I cannot
fix him unless his cracks are willing to be rubbed raw to let
the light in.

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