Work Text:
The revelation appeared at their clay feet,
a horrible vision of loneliness that left their bodies to decay.
Lights flicker and no longer do the scratches on the floor hold demons
(after all, they’re only scratches).
But the Prophetic Guest was unamused,
his cheeks shallow, with a grim jawline cut from garnet.
Even his cluttered muttering makes me want to
stick my fingers down your throat.
He comments on my shaky hands, laughing at how they pitifully they tremble, even for a hanged angel.
wouldn't it be nice
to steal an angel's thoughts for a day?
—to chew every last bit of their laughter and spit it at their feet;
—to their pluck feathers that burn and leave blisters;
—to peel away their sad eyes from their altars.
I have become little more than
irrelevant.
My raison d'être
wasn’t to blind an Orpheus, though he cannot see;
or to the shield an Achilles, though he is crippled;
nor to lessen the folly of an Icarus, though he is a grim reminder;
it was to save
all of those who I couldn't
in the end.
no ulterior motives,
"right?"
"sure."
"i think."