A god’s funeral



Whispers and flutes… these are the only sounds my wounded ears can hear in the gloomy light of the dusk. I know there is not too much time left before it happens. I knew it would come. However, I don’t have the smallest clue when it will or when. As all my senses are sat at rest, I can not make head or tail of what iss taking place. All I can see are the bars my eyes have as I am making efforts to see the crams of light which still glitter on the scarlet sky. I saw… I see a point on the dying horizon departing from my hurting corpse; I do not know if it is a raven or it was a gryphon. All I know is that my limbs become number with every passing second. Oblivion was the sole haven and my obsolete punishment for my cruel sins, for it had been my mistake to love an evanescent being.
But let us not prolong it for more. I try to hold my last breaths on this sinful earth as to leave you, my dear friend, my legacy as I am the last of the ‘Fallen ones’. I have no fortunes to call mine, but the most treasured pearl for me is this: all I know and all I have kept in me for centuries in line. There is nothing more violent, more destructive, more deflowering than all the wounds and all the scars which come in one’s life, though these are the most precious qualities which one can ever hold. There is nothing to be more ashamed of, more proud of or more devoted to speak of than the misfortunes of life which continue to snare us and which strengthen us at times of trouble.
Now let I, the one whose soul has been unwillingly taken by the Fallen, speak. It was not until my mother, the kind and gentle Lilith of the Damned, gave birth to the most beautiful fiend Eden’s garden had ever seen that I saw the light. For now she guards the denatured halls of Endurance, where her last sighs will be heard for centuries. That being said, my friend, is the price she had to pay to make me what I am now: a Fallen. All of her dreams have been mercilessly shattered in a single moment of wickedness of her sole heir. A single moment in which an impervious soul had been mesmerized by the frail and innocent face of a mortal child.
It still haunts me. It still rejuvenates those pains for which I have been dealt this punishment. I can never look to the sky with the same eyes, for there are only two hollow sockets in which a small spark still glims.
I have raped, for I could not have what I wanted to poses. I have taken forcefully from an infant what was forbidden by the unwritten laws of Heaven . Yes, I have a committed a sin. I, an angel. I have been punished to see my monstrous metamorphosis every dusk and every dawn. I am neither a human, neither a demon and an angel can never be spoken of. Oh, you wicked, fetid, dim soul, you craved for what was never meant to be yours.
Now it is my final day, for the one who was hurt by me, Etherigon, has come to peace with me and has granted me forgiveness, though he will never be able to forget. I am finally allowed to smell the divine scent of earth, to see the canvas of the sky painted in vibrant lights, to hear the flute of the birds, the sonnets sung by the wolves, troubadours of night, to enjoy the symphony of wind. But still this heavenly painting is the emprisonment of a prison. I have seen for the last decades my body decomposing over and over again, my flesh rotting, turning into mud, then being burnt by the gentle beams of sun. My arms stretch and twist every day, contorsioning into canopies of living dead. My head would become a giant, dark plated leather cap which held in its wombs the hearts of thousands of misanthropists. My hair becomes at the dawn a despicable mutant, a restless hydra with tens of tentacles painted in the most beautiful putrefied purple a human’s eyes have ever seen. Oh, my body aches and shouts in vin for cures, for divine remedies, but divinity wil never hear my beggings. I feel my organs being scorched by the hatred my wicked heart holds. My smile, once brighter than the sun itself, now is the birthplace of monsters and every monster’s placenta. I have been laid into a huge throne made of abortions’ melting bodies, the table where all my grieves gather on filthy pieces of papiruses is made of the suppurating wounds of those who were spiritually hurt. Well…
It has come… I can no longer see the sun hiding behind grey clouds… I can only bee the timid admirer of the play behind this beautifully painted veil, for all my senses die in a gentle way… I will no longer hear the flutes and whispers of the earth, for all my horrible mistakes have finally come to an end. All my sufferings will now slowly fade and all that will be left will be a single silently shouted ode in the ears of dying ghouls. I, my friend, have come to an end….