Part III (ext) – Poem of a mad man

Words 

Fallen are the words of old,
A screaming wind my soul has sold.
Too high the heights, that I have found.

Fallen too, the highest foul,
The angel, that clawed wings so cruel
In my despair and guilt unbound.

As hands then reached a stranger one,
And moments too familiar shone,
Lost the word another Reich.

Too late my heart could realize
Our words were but demise,
For heaven and for hell alike.

Part III – Dreams and Deception

As if it was a dream within a dream, I found myself under a starless sky. A weeping Venus, a moon in the mask of death, and no soul but my own were left. The air was thick with promised bloodshed, prophecies of a foul Eden, midnightmares and spiritual abortion, and though I knew about the foulness of this dream, I could not stop it.
I did not want to let it end, too afraid it might escape my subconsciousness, assume reality. Consume my very being.
Though, even in this corruption I could find euphoria. And as the Venus of my dreams faded in her last tear, the grinning Luna stood between us. On the horizon of my mind, the beauty of last night stood tall, yet lifeless. Consumed by a goddess, the first wife of man, this woman left my dreams. And somewhere, shimmering in the thickening air, that now stole my breath completely, I could feel her, the whore of Babylon. My sweet Lamia, always have you been my Sin.
And in this dream within a dream, expelled from light, I died for her.

At last I broke free from my catharsis. As I awoke, I glimpsed morning—and death within its dawn. My nocturnal companion, the beautiful night owl, was no longer with me. In the light of Venus we fell to love and sin, but it was the fading moon, that parted us. And with us, a cruelty within her broke free.
I knew that the demoness, that her heart kept sealed, will live on – for some evil are too cruel, even for death—though her hostess ceased life as the new dawn was born. I moved not but wondered, what curse might her death have set free upon this very earth. Night owl, precious first wife, have you yet again awoken, just to leave me once more? Deceived, forsaken, I could not but yearn for her return once again.
I spread apart her grip of death and left this meaningless daughter of Eve. Beautiful in her mortal guise, she will join the filth upon which she lost her last breath. And I knew, Venus now would be a darker one.

Betrayed and played by a greater plot, yet to be defined, I continued my march to find answers. Though broken with an abyss she left in my heart, alone this march should not be.
In the ruins of the cities of old, long burned by Michael’s ignorance, long washed away by the will of the flood, I stumbled upon a creature without reason. Though the will in his tongue and the wisdom in his eyes, tormented by thousands of years of truth, was so strong, I could not resist to learn about this all too familiar stranger.
I called him the mad man, and he, in twisted tongues, gladly agreed.

»Nothing is true. Anything could be.«

A presence surrounded him, as if it was a storming midnight. His body was punished and broken, and two scars of old tore over his back. It was almost as if I could feel the vast power of long lost wings embracing the horizon. It was the highest arch of heaven, now broken and nothing but a dogma of ancient texts and undesired rites, that lingered in the mad man’s eyes.

Now he cowered between fallen walls and rotten stone. His immortal soul hungered but his heart soon should cease.
Where is the fire in your sheath, the righteousness in your voice, I asked the last of the saints. Are you too now fallen, brother?
Not knowing whether he should laugh or cry, the mad man sought to stand, though his legs could find no strength. Feeble, like a dying candle, his voice broke harsh from his throat.
»The past has failed us, old friend«, he said. »The [God] you and I once knew is nothing but a moralized phantasy. Man-made idolized history of betrayal and deception. The true spark of the divine, the dream we once shared, fell with the last of the dragons. Now no morning sun would shine, no faith could prevail. Left is, what remains in man as shattered faith and scattered believe. Though what truly was, that is no more.«
It saddened me, and my soul felt nothing but cold within his words.
He called me father, when he said, »We are forgotten. Left to rot by those we loved most. Too blind was our eye, driven by ignorance was our hand. The creation took its course and the sands of time are running low. Who could save these dire times, truly, who is like [God]?«
I knelt before him to touch his cheek and so much I wanted to take this pain from him. I could not bare to see the saint like this, yet neither could I turn on him.
His eyes pierced mine and with pearls of fever on his forehead he climbed to his ultimate conclusion.
»I can see it in your eyes«, he said. »[God]«, he whispered, »[God] is dead. You know it to be true.«
With a heavy heart, and an even heavier revelation as our eyes met for the last time, I then turned.
And in my eyes, or at least so I believe now, he saw what his dying heart has longed to see for so long.
Nothing is true. Anything could be.
Michael, I said, you of all fallen should know best …
And as I felt the cold air around him lighting up in a smile as pure as that of a child, he then spoke his last words.

»May you have mercy on my soul.«

Part II – The Apple of my Eye

The night is darkest just before the dawn.
Since the beginning of my journey, I ever wanted to know where it was I should turn. Though now, forsaken from all hope, forsaken from the life I once created, I found myself turned at last.
Now I’ve crawled through the wake of darkness. No more riddled, I thought to find answers deep inside of me. Not blinded by my light, that forgets the darkness it vanished, here in the shadows of my soul, I started to listen.
There was the mad man, his tongue covered in mystery, his words followed by blasphemy.
And too I found ancient ones, and angels of old. Scholars and Warriors, children of murderers, kindred of the dragon and devils of stranger gods. Here, in the darkest hour, I found, what Michael and his brethren could never see, for too high for truth they were seated. Here, before the dawn of time, where I embraced the utter indifference of life and death, I now knew the ones, that reached the peak and then fell for it all.
But first, where God’s blind eyes never dared to spot, I met her.

Now I knew a night as dark as she alone could have promised.
She, the incarnation of desire, bitter seduction made flesh. Sweet temptation, you forbidden apple of my eye, I should resist not. Her dark eyes promised everything and nothing. What shall I call a creature so beautiful and pure? She threw herself into my grasp, hurled herself onto me like a whirlwind and pressed her full lips onto mine, it hurt my every muscle. As she leaned back–and never should I forget the grin on her face–my eyes laid rest on her body and her silhouette burned itself forever into my sight. Maybe I looked too deep into the chaos of her soul, and as I gave in, so did she. With the night breathing over our bare skin, with the starless skies above and the foul earth below, we became more than mortal lovers. We became a unity of desire, of promise, a single minded beast clawing and biting for more. The heat of her breath, the promising whisper of nightmares to come, broke this old man from every chain.
Then, in the midst of panting and bucking, I believed hearing her name hissing between the dissonance in our breathing. More than ever, something in my mind shattered once and for all.

She, the apple of my eye, she came with visions. Images now forced themselves in fever and fire through my mind, like foul worms crawling through the dried veins of eden. Visions of a cradle hidden in paradise, fouled by the seed of corruption, unrelenting and without any leash to ever break her scorn. Suddenly, she drew me back to the day before known time, to the carcass of my broken heart.
Born from filth, not dust, it was her, this self-righteous owl of night. Her journey was that of dread, of deceiving and death. She withstood the will of divine, the gnawing teeth of time, the rust between one eternity to another, to now dig her malicious claws deep into my flesh and my very soul. How blind must a Creator have been to force free will upon a creature so corrupted, so spiteful for everything she was meant to be? For everything she loathed, I now loathed the same. With that I now questioned myself, how blind have I now become?
We spiraled with chaos and for what now seems as an eternity in damnation. She was the principle of evil made flesh, and for the lust I felt between her thighs, forever I shall pay with but a shard of my sanity. Precious night owl, my bride of old, beautiful thorn of eden, my eyes were opened.
Lo and behold, for her name promised pleasure, yet bore nothing but the misery of truth.

And suddenly, I felt nothing. Left only with a broken heart, and dread hanging over us naked lovers, we clung tightly within the chilling breath of night.
I feared so deeply for dawn never to come.

And she; her name was Sin.

Part I – [Hope] comes before the fall

Every of our lives is but a selfish creation, out of control, driven by entropy and decay.
My life in this ocean of chaos was riddling. Nowhere to go, anywhere to turn. Neither of purpose, nor of reason, fate or destiny, promises, hope. I was a self-created lie, something lesser, anything else. Not worth a prayer, not worth the pride.
I looked up to the sun, up to the moon and wondered and wandered mindlessly, without a goal. And all I asked was, why and why and why?

So much I’ve longed for something I could only pretend never to find. I wanted more. There must have been a greater answer, a bigger truth or at least–and anything was better than nothing–a deeper lie. For heaven or hell, God or Creator, for the sake of my sanity; this life could not be just that.
Thenceforth I reached for the stars. I was determined to find, devoted to seek. I created hope where none dwelled before, for nothing could stop me from finding an answer. Such young and innocent hope, naive in its honesty, but relentless in its drive. My heart was filled and beating so strong, it was deafening. Though I resisted not, I needed to know.
Mine was the starving march through the ruins of history, the stranglehold of a choking hourglass and the unforgiving search through the sands of time. The ages of mankind behind me, I then climbed the highest mountains, battled the hissing storms and the never ending winters. I breathed the bitterness of frostbitten time itself, and stood before the gates of heaven. I devoted and gave my life to find them welded shut with ice, forsaken and forgotten, and now frozen over with lost dreams and times undone.
Then all I had left was to look down. Down to a world ready to share the same destiny, the same promise and lie.
Suddenly, though not surprisingly, I felt betrayed. Was it not hope, that now brought me to the end of hope itself? And before these ancient gates, sealed with the jealousy of a blinded war, I fell on my knees and I screamed and I cried. Here, where the Morning Sun once turned away, I found doubt where childish hope once dwelled. It was here, that rebellion became recreation. But too was it here, where hope became madness, became guilt, which now I felt with every beat of an aging heart. And a part deep within me wanted for the world to feel this very guilt, too. I was but a broken man at the end of a lost journey. Driven once by hope, filled with pride and ready now to fall.
Here, on top of it all, on the edge of the biggest abyss ever created by the divine, I started to riddle once again.

What God would create a world, in which reaching the highest of any point can only mean a certain fall?

For no answer, nor good shall ever come from where the heavens died, I had to go deeper.
So I turned to the fallen, to the twisted and wicked, all the creatures I only ever knew as wrong and misjudged. I embraced the fear, the rage, and I laughed. Laughed, until my eyes bled tears of fright, laughed with the mad and all the beautiful bleak. There we celebrated the art of agony, the moment every man, even the most hopeless, will cherish his life at last.
And like a hissing crack through an ornate mirror, the answer came so clear.