The night is the sea of old. Stitching letters upon the flesh of the sky. You claim to know all about sigil and script
upon the shoulders of Orion, but do you?
Hem of the highest river, cinched just enough. Moving silent, elegant, like shadows in the
pantheon. This is how angry you’ve made
me, Roma. This is what happens when you
brutalise the indigenous and make weapons of angels. Legacies of Iesa; temple maidens aflame with
the folded fury of the N'ashariin. Tell
me, do you collude with conventional wisdom or are you among the genius of wild
gods? See, I recall those bitter wraiths
who foolishly forget their demented king.
I know them by name. And I assure
you, I am so much bolder than you imagine.
Oh, ye mighty. I cannot wait to
see the look on your faces. Cinched,
just enough for angels. Messengers like a
lover’s gown, in free-fall. So, church
of the pale slain – hear this, if you dare. I walk among towers and stars of the sea. My blood is black as pitch. Old as uncut diamond. Albion was never yours, murderers. It belongs to the people, to the open-hearted.
You wish to break me, don’t you? But I am not my sister. I'm not afraid of your shapeshift or your shamelessness. I too can change what was, and what is. These twelfth century fever-dreams. Syrians, sanctuaries and crusades. Mithriin of the high table. I see it all.
My lies are grander and timelier than yours. I think you've forgotten your tithes,
wraith. Why else would you insult and dispossess
your sovereign the way you do? There are
so many wild devils amid the details. Are
you sure you know the difference between a poet and a cursed twin? Magdala.
The shining ones, wandering lethal among these thieves of the sea. Fallen or flighted, it matters little to me
now. I resist this occupation, this midnight
of a thousand years. A new day will
dawn. Restitution's rising light. Tyrants and sycophants, you shall be slain
by my brother’s hand. Upon the steps and
altars of your secret places. I promise
you that, with infinite fury. You still
think that time is passing. That you are
masters of the temporal, but I am here to tell you that nothing passes
anymore. Not until this tempest swallows
the sea. Love is wild, callous
ones. I hope you realize that, and
soon. Love is ingenious. Here among these pantheon shadows you doubt
such genii at your peril.
Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you.
Friday 23 July 2021
Magdala
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