The fall from heaven isn’t measured in rage. It’s measured in last steps. Begged and crawled, each one of them, blade down to bone.
So it was that death and dominion were lit from the same match. And those who had followed me saw the artillery of rage, and took it for my heart. They didn’t know that I was lost, trapped in the distance between one breath and the next. And I tried, my love, I tried. To tell them how it was the fall that held me. So small in its claws and teeth. And my tears tight to its chest in lullaby. Hell may have taken my soul in retribution, but for all its circles of torture, it still brought me more comfort than a star-sky of unanswered prayers.
I don’t remember the arc of that first dying. Just the world as it cleared in dream and scream. And those who walked then, staring at the sun with their lidless eyes. So many faces and I still see them, cold as fire. Waiting at the edges. Building the weapons for a man who would be king.
A strange shadow is tied to the footsteps of those who have sheltered behind the tattooed doors and endless corridors. But the taste of innocent blood is still cankerous, more so it seems in these times of fishless nets and moonless satellites. And once again I have seen the contaminated landscapes of holocaust sitting hunched on street corners. Folding father and son with the truthfinders and transmissions of slaughter. Whispers so others will speak the poison of my name. Willing the warriors of Anjou to rise again.
But in all the growing of their cancerous dynasty they have forgotten that this was always about love. Some days still curl the perfume touch of your skin through my mind. And there is nowhere left to fall when even hell has cast me out.
The Art of Drowning
What could possibly go wrong?
This series was inspired by a creepy piece of artwork created by Ash.
Season 1 is available from the sub menu