What did Chimerical inspire?
adjective; meaning "Existing only as the product of unchecked imagination,
Fantastically visionary or improbable,
Given to fantastic schemes."
We were not creatures,
Made to love.
To feel.
The gift of mankind,
Was to ours,
So foreign,
So strange.
The gift of free will,
A fruit we knew not.
And the angels wept.
But we were not made,
To be creatures
Removed from time.
From beginnings.
From endings.
From death.
We knew the outcome,
We so eagerly sought,
Upon the field of battle.
And the angels wept.
And still I can see,
It all came back,
The call to battle,
To duty,
To the will.
But the will was not that,
Which drove forward the legions,
But the will I had wrought,
In Eden,
In my home,
In my love.
And I fought as the blades,
Tore away at my form.
And the angels wept.
I was Wings of Flame.
The Shimmering Firestorm.
The Blade of Heaven,
Now cast upon the earth,
No tear shed,
For the loss of a tool.
I fell from grace,
To the darkness,
Of a world,
Where she could not be,
By my side,
In my arms.
In my eyes,
You may see,
The golden glimmer
Her memory still brings.
But do not confuse it,
For a light that lies within.
I sought free will,
The gift of her kind,
And now only know,
The form,
Of a demon.
Alone.
And afraid,
In word without her.
And so silently, the angel wept.
Fantastically visionary or improbable,
Given to fantastic schemes."
And the angels wept.
I was Wings of Flame.
The Shimmering Firestorm.
The Blade of Heaven,
that struck down,
Judgment.
Sentence.
Death.
And the angels wept.
I carried out the tasks,
It was not choice,
It was neither right,
Nor wrong.
It was my duty.
My honor.
And I carried out the tasks.
And within,
I carried the burden,
Of knowing,
Of feeling,
Of seeing,
Of shame.
And the angels wept.
No man dared stand,
Against the will that commanded,
The legions of angels.
But we were not above,
Nor were we below.
We simply were.
Creations set to motion,
By an unseen force,
Of direction.
Of course.
Of fate.
And the angels wept.
I was Wings of Flame.
The Shimmering Firestorm.
The Blade of Heaven,
that struck down,
Judgment.
Sentence.
Death.
And the angels wept.
I carried out the tasks,
It was not choice,
It was neither right,
Nor wrong.
It was my duty.
My honor.
And I carried out the tasks.
And within,
I carried the burden,
Of knowing,
Of feeling,
Of seeing,
Of shame.
And the angels wept.
No man dared stand,
Against the will that commanded,
The legions of angels.
But we were not above,
Nor were we below.
We simply were.
Creations set to motion,
By an unseen force,
Of direction.
Of course.
Of fate.
And the angels wept.
We were not creatures,
Made to love.
To feel.
The gift of mankind,
Was to ours,
So foreign,
So strange.
The gift of free will,
A fruit we knew not.
And the angels wept.
But we were not made,
To be creatures
Removed from time.
From beginnings.
From endings.
From death.
We knew the outcome,
We so eagerly sought,
Upon the field of battle.
And the angels wept.
And still I can see,
My form,
Crumpled.
Broken.
Bathed
In the scarlet fury of battle,
And reflected in those eyes.
Her eyes.
Just a young girl,
Who happened upon
A fallen angel.
And the angels wept.
Those days of pain,
And torment,
And fear.
Fevered dreams,
As she hid me,
From the world,
That had seen the fury,
I bore within my will,
Gave way,
To chimerical notions.
And yet,
I remained.
And the angels wept.
I witnessed seasons,
And celebrations,
And heartache,
Within her arms,
And her within mine.
I was changing,
The call to battle,
To duty,
To the will,
No more than a whisper.
I had left heaven,
And found
in her
my own Eden.
And the angels wept.
But there came a time,
When we could no longer hide,
From the eyes,
Of heaven,
Of humanity,
Of the worlds we knew,
And shared.
And loved.
Ours was a love,
That bore forbidden fruit.
And the angels wept.
My brethren came,
From the four corners,
Swords blazing.
Warriors.
Judges.
Thieves.
That struck in the night,
And stole from me,
Crumpled.
Broken.
Bathed
In the scarlet fury of battle,
And reflected in those eyes.
Her eyes.
Just a young girl,
Who happened upon
A fallen angel.
And the angels wept.
Those days of pain,
And torment,
And fear.
Fevered dreams,
As she hid me,
From the world,
That had seen the fury,
I bore within my will,
Gave way,
To chimerical notions.
And yet,
I remained.
And the angels wept.
I witnessed seasons,
And celebrations,
And heartache,
Within her arms,
And her within mine.
I was changing,
The call to battle,
To duty,
To the will,
No more than a whisper.
I had left heaven,
And found
in her
my own Eden.
And the angels wept.
But there came a time,
When we could no longer hide,
From the eyes,
Of heaven,
Of humanity,
Of the worlds we knew,
And shared.
And loved.
Ours was a love,
That bore forbidden fruit.
And the angels wept.
My brethren came,
From the four corners,
Swords blazing.
Warriors.
Judges.
Thieves.
That struck in the night,
And stole from me,
The shining light,
More brilliant
In my eyes
Than the rays of heaven.
And the angels wept.
With sudden rage,More brilliant
In my eyes
Than the rays of heaven.
And the angels wept.
It all came back,
The call to battle,
To duty,
To the will.
But the will was not that,
Which drove forward the legions,
But the will I had wrought,
In Eden,
In my home,
In my love.
And I fought as the blades,
Tore away at my form.
And the angels wept.
I was Wings of Flame.
The Shimmering Firestorm.
The Blade of Heaven,
Now cast upon the earth,
No tear shed,
For the loss of a tool.
I fell from grace,
To the darkness,
Of a world,
Where she could not be,
By my side,
In my arms.
In my eyes,
You may see,
The golden glimmer
Her memory still brings.
But do not confuse it,
For a light that lies within.
I sought free will,
The gift of her kind,
And now only know,
The form,
Of a demon.
Alone.
And afraid,
In word without her.
And so silently, the angel wept.
When I first met her, I was still called Hamaliel.
I had four heads and seven wings and held but a wisp of a form. She didn’t see me then, but I watched her.
When she was 16, she learned of loss.
A small creature felled before her. She later told me she’d been learning to drive, and this small thing had run before her. There was no chance to stop she had sobbed out, heart breaking years from the accident. I told her not to fear, that things had time. That far more innocent creatures had been felled by my own hands. That one could not live without bringing a byproduct of pain in some form.
She was uncomforted, asking me only to hold my tongue. I didn’t know the ways of humans yet.
When she was 24, she saw me.
She thought me a chimerical hallucination, knelt in prayer by her door. I told her I had spent too many years watching from afar. I had stepped into her realm, a man of one head, and no wings, but solid enough to hold her. Too many years of hers had passed in tears I could not save her from drowning under the weight of.
It was the first night I held her. Too many tears fell, and I knew not why.
When she was 28, I fell.
My world was shaded over with the soft pink of her soul, binding me more to its beauty than the features they hid behind. When I opened my eyes, I felt around our bed, feeling blind despite the sunlight streaking in. I was met with soft olive skin, high cheekbones and green eyes. I didn’t know them without the pink haze, but they knew me still. I learned what it was to cry, feeling the last of my Grace slip through molting wings, and the sound of a new heartbeat forming between us.
When she was 29, I held our firstborn.
She renamed me Hal, and begged me to stay beside her. I had no Heaven to return to. Where would I go if not to her? My words failed to comfort her again. This time, with the ache reflected in my own chest, I started to understand why. She didn’t know that I had meant to call her, and our children, my home.
When she was 34, I watched home turn cold.
Uriel stood before me, blocking the path to them. I watched souls quenched by fires never intended for them. I begged and I sobbed and he called me weak. He threw my abandoned sword before my prone form, and dared me to take it up again. I could feel my hands tremble, drawn towards the Grace it still held. The promises it offered me, of letting my family not pass on in vain.
But I remembered the tears in her eyes when she spoke of the squirrel and moving too fast at 16. I remembered what it was to not understand, to wield weapons in Heaven’s name while doing nothing in its honor.
For the second time in my existence, I disobeyed his command.
When she would have been 38, I found myself at a crossroad.
It was a sigil, and a contract, and a single deal.
I fell further.
My soul had lacked the strength it found in her. I spoke to a woman in red heels and a sharp smile about the sting of blood against my senses. I thought, as a human, I would never know what it was to be overwhelmed by the sensory distortions of the world again. All it had taken was blood and pain.
Her smile never faltered.
She was the second woman I fell for, but these touches taught me only hate.
When she would have been 50, the war began.
The Demon Hamaliel, they called me. It seemed only right to take the name of Heaven back to them.
I felled the Grace of many, and stood before their gates drenched in all that remained of them. I held the sword I’d formed myself of Hellfire against the throats of Heaven’s best. Bring them back, I ordered out. I learned from their pleas, some actions cannot be undone.
And I broke the gates down.
Kaitlyn Rak
I thought you stepped out of one of my dreams and into reality.
("I had a dream about you," he says.)
I never thought I'd be loved -
no, I suppose it wasn't love, was it?
I never thought I'd be lusted after -
is that the right term? I guess so.
I was little more than your plaything, the first few weeks.
But still, I persisted. I put my feelings aside.
I let myself be used - such an ugly word, used -
as a living doll.
Then you tossed me aside, just as I expected.
That was what I was used to.
That was how most men treated me, anyways.
Why would you be any different?
But then.
("I had a dream about you," he says.)
You were different.
Even though there was another, you still seemed to care for me.
I felt like my imagination had dreamed you up.
I had written down stories about men like you,
and you seemingly walked off those pages
into my arms.
She still existed -
and yet you touched me the way a lover touches their beloved.
Hold my hand. Kiss the top of my head. Pull me in for an embrace.
"There's that cute ghost smile."
I analyzed everything about you with my friends,
and they all came to the same conclusion.
"He must be having second thoughts about her. He clearly cares for you."
("I had a dream about you," he says.)
I was experiencing what felt like a break in reality.
I needed them to validate my own interpretations of these situations.
I wasn't sure whether or not I was letting my feelings cloud my judgement.
Still. They all came to the same conclusion.
He must care for me. He must. He must.
He must.
And then.
"I didn't intend to give you that impression. I'm sorry."
Are you sure about that? You say you aren't confused,
but I don't believe you.
Maybe I am experiencing the improbable after all.
It was all inside my head. None of it was real.
And yet -
("I had a dream about you," he says.)
("I had a dream about you," he says.)
I never thought I'd be loved -
no, I suppose it wasn't love, was it?
I never thought I'd be lusted after -
is that the right term? I guess so.
I was little more than your plaything, the first few weeks.
But still, I persisted. I put my feelings aside.
I let myself be used - such an ugly word, used -
as a living doll.
Then you tossed me aside, just as I expected.
That was what I was used to.
That was how most men treated me, anyways.
Why would you be any different?
But then.
("I had a dream about you," he says.)
You were different.
Even though there was another, you still seemed to care for me.
I felt like my imagination had dreamed you up.
I had written down stories about men like you,
and you seemingly walked off those pages
into my arms.
She still existed -
and yet you touched me the way a lover touches their beloved.
Hold my hand. Kiss the top of my head. Pull me in for an embrace.
"There's that cute ghost smile."
I analyzed everything about you with my friends,
and they all came to the same conclusion.
"He must be having second thoughts about her. He clearly cares for you."
("I had a dream about you," he says.)
I was experiencing what felt like a break in reality.
I needed them to validate my own interpretations of these situations.
I wasn't sure whether or not I was letting my feelings cloud my judgement.
Still. They all came to the same conclusion.
He must care for me. He must. He must.
He must.
And then.
"I didn't intend to give you that impression. I'm sorry."
Are you sure about that? You say you aren't confused,
but I don't believe you.
Maybe I am experiencing the improbable after all.
It was all inside my head. None of it was real.
And yet -
("I had a dream about you," he says.)
No comments:
Post a Comment