All The Angels Carry Knives Now

The Prophecy

And when the Muses came during the dark days
They came to offer salvation and a truce.
They offered unto man their own.

And upon them hung the balance of the world…



All those Angels carry knives now.
All those Angels’ names are whispered soft with fear.

And when those Angels speak
It is not to answer prayers:


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I cleared your cobwebs for millennia
Scouring your sins from the floors of these halls
Scrubbing at blood the never ceased to flow
Until all my ivory was turned to red
And in the wet dank heat
Of your crimes of
Passion

I could feel my virtue go to rot

And so:
I drank from the
chalice of deceit

Only that I might turn my eyes away
From all the hearts-blood you shed

And over what?
Over a trifle, if you will.
Over a mark drawn in the sand

Over a tower that will crumble
In a hundred years with no men left to lay claim
To that which they once held so dear.

My immortal skin pockmarked
By your gunshots

Gauged with bayonet and
Blasting powder.

Marred then left to linger
Tarnished
Forever


Do not press your demands upon me now

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And so speaks she who was called Peace
But has descended now
To join ranks with War.



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A fool overlong I linger lost in melancholy
A word spoken is a word wasted
Upon the breath of…

Vain ideals?

Once I had an ideal but it was lost
Upon the breath…

No.

Once I had an idea:
That the world was round

And I gave it to a man
Who used it to conquer and claim
And kill.

And so I spin now,
Merry-go-round
Of fools around
Never ceasing in their banter.

I cannot understand.

I had an idea once…

But no.

What good can come of that?


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And thus she who was Reason
Descends amongst
The Mad.


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I…
I, fairest of them all,
I pricked my finger upon a spindle
Planted for another beauty

And slept for a thousand years.

In a grave so deep the maggots

Did become one
With the plague-bloom that became
My skin.

Woke to find my body
Half consumed
By dirt

Now the deep roots grow
Where my wings should sprout

And my eyes are for the worms

So your jealous rage
Has made of me
Ugly, without and within.

I will gaze not into your mirrors
And grant you any dreams

Now this has been done unto me.


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Here she who was once Beauty
Becomes a Monster
Before our eyes.

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When the muses came in the dark days
We made with them a pact:
To defend their own whom they gave to us


For upon them hung the balance of the world…



All those Angels carry knives now.
All those Angels’ names are whispered soft with fear.

And when those Angels speak
It is to damn our Immortal Souls.