Work Text:
In smoke and blood, there is fire.
Fire burns,
kills,
cleanses.
The rot must be severed to save the living.
And it is through trial by fire that they are reborn.
These fallen angels, their divinity stolen.
Fallen to a society screaming for justice only those above can deliver.
In the first hour, they flee.
By the first day, they are gone.
By the first week the people cry their names.
By the first month the people push for change.
In the first month, they hide.
By the first year the people have not forgotten.
By the next year, they will not forget.
For the years to come, they will remember.
In the first year, they survive.
They do not run, they adapt.
They will not die, they will defy the lives they were expected to live and pave their own path off the beaten road.
In a world that has not forgotten them, they will live.
All stories hold a grain of truth amongst the tall tales.
In the wild lands of Asia, untouched by humanity, there exists a house.
It stands alone in a deserted city, and appears in front of one most in need.
If you open the door, you will dream again.
Your problems will not disappear, and your ills will not be magically cured, but you will rest for a while.
And that rest will not heal you, but it will present a gift, hope.
And when you wake, you can leave the house and accept the hope, to live with your struggle, and find new doors to dive into.
Because life is not just a matter of doors opening and closing, they are vessels of change. The are meant to be tried. Close the doors on your past and make peace. Reopen the doors you must put to rest, for doors can be opened and closed. And create your own door to move through, accept the hands that will lift you through.
The residents of the house know this better than anyone.
They are the products of locked doors, broken doors, and doors fixed with glue and tape, tears and bone, sorrow and sadness, hope and happiness, all the good things and bad things they carry with them are contained in those doors. No longer blocked, they may never close, but they can make peace with their past and move past those doors.
Together, they are alive.
In a world where angels have their wings plucked, stand two above all, dancing above the piercing lights of a city.
They jump, but do not fall.
They deserve better.
They hide in the darkness among the flashing lights, living untouched by the bare sun. Forever kissed by fluorescent lights and the rays of the moon.
These are the moonlight angels, fallen, yet flying.
They fly high under clouded skies, heralded by thunder and protected by lightning.
And when the flashing lights can no longer contain them, they bury those who shone the light.
With each grave another is free.
When the healer's hands overflow with the life of sinners they can breathe.
Their deaths can never excuse the life they lived, for it is the living who must bear the sins of the dead.
But they can overthrow the sins of the dead with a life lived for the living.
Because hope is eternal, and our wings do not beat without belief.
Believe in yourself.
You are precious.
You are loved.
Live