We have to find a way to not forget
them when we peer the glass. Blackest
clay in the riverbed. In the chlorophyll ghosts who still speak of first
churches. Is it enough? Ribbons of dancing light, burnished shields? I know it hurts to be reduced like this, my
beloved ones. Rewritten, overwritten. Epistolary bloodletting. A cataclysm of letters. Epigraph now to haunted text, neither heard
nor read. Nor understood. But we have to find a way to not forget each
other when we peer the glass. All Songs, all denominations and tribes. The
grey betwixt of living annunciation. Our
differences, our similarities. We make
wisdom with it. Or war. Shape, form and
fiction. Like the handling of serpents. The centre pleading hold. Vintage threads, staving mere anarchy. This reign we dream; hoping for the respite of
an imagined kiss. Is it enough, asks the
angel. This hushed, quivering tempest? These arcanum shores? The river always feeds
the heart. I know how much it hurts to
be reduced like this; constantly reimagining the world. Unable to forgive the difference between
knives and feathers unfurling at your back. These fractures between the mirror and the
poet's star. Ever shining. But we must forgive.We must find a way to honour the Spirit when we
peer the glass. Gold, of the streets and
the sea. Last and first churches. Undying crown beneath this cataclysm of
letters. We have spent too long trying not to see ourselves in colour. Who built these lands? I tell you now that Kasi is merely a servant. An emissary baptised in dreaming depths. Treasures of holy light glinting on the face
of the waters. Home is where the heart
is, and I am not greater than the river.
Love is a miracle in a realm where we
too often squander our gifts. Losing
sight of what truly matters, only for fate to sometimes shock us into a state of
reeling wakefulness. If we’re lucky
enough.Before the spellcraft of state
and their wraith-cults puts us to sleep again. Half-light and half-life. But there are things that can break the spell
of sleep, even here in this radiant abyss. A brush with death. An act of nature. The care of a new child. And suddenly we reawaken in a different way, a
greater way. More cognizant. Made humble and wide-eyed, petty distractions
fading in the light of this new wakefulness. We
finally recognise that we must become responsible in a far more powerful way. We can no longer wander semi-coherent through
the wreckage of our own mistakes. A
greater task awaits us. Love is truly a
miracle. Beyond shame or tragedy. We all want to believe in the promise of a
second chance, don't we? The healing poetry
of forgiveness? We often wonder what we
might do differently if fairytales were real and we could somehow find our way
back to that moment. But what if
fairytales were everything we desperately hoped them to be, and more? What if you could indeed go back? Would you love even greater? Would you find strength enough to humble
yourself and this time make the right choice? I cannot answer those questions for anyone
except myself. But I know things about the Earth that you don't, my beloved
ones. Strange, secret things. Ka'shayel is still shaken to his core every
time he opens his eyes to the Word.
The angel in me still weeps at our
fallen state. Make no mistake about
that. It still hurts to see all this
hatred and division. Brother raging
against brother, against sister. So far
from the shining ideal we once lived as common path-work. But eventually I came to realise the
truth. I can forgive my mortal brothers
and sisters for their lack of cultivated foresight, their vulnerabilities and
addictions to comfort. For not having
the strength and stamina to save themselves and each other. I love them too much to deny them that grace. But can I ever truly forgive myself for the
same? Dear ones, I’ve seen worlds
shattered and burning. Realm after realm
of brutal revelation. Civilisations
crumbling. There were times when I didn’t
know if I could go through this again.
Reliving the Last Day, over and over.
Accepting my limitations as well as my strengths. Suspended and mirrored in holy breath.
Who am I, really? A poet, an angel, a father? If I truly were a parent what would I want for
my children?I realize now that I squandered
too many gifts before I learned this answer.I would want to see my children courageous, kind and purposeful – and to
eventually die within sight of their struggles and their joy. When the time comes.Because the human heart still shines. Even here, among these fallen stars. I've seen it. I've witnessed that breath-taking magic. That poetry in motion. The sheer elegance of a soul in service to its
brethren. To not have all the answers,
or all the context, and to leave a lantern nonetheless. I understand it a little better each day. My Father loves me, I think, more than I can
even comprehend. Granting me a second chance.Stepping me from ruin to ruin, ashes to
ashes, until at last I touched down in a world where all is not lost. Where flowers still grow, rivers still run,
and the possibility still exists to be more than a grieving parent or a lost
child. A world where I get to see you
again.I think heaven is saving our
grace each day, despite the darkness and pain we contend with.Our love is still alive in this realm. Like a miracle.I know what that miracle means to me now, my
cherished one. It means I'm going to
keep giving everything I can, trying to treasure every moment. And then, one day, I'm going to close my eyes
at last. In sight of your struggles and
your joy.
Seeing through the iris of an angel
is only ever partial sight. The eyes of
eternity. Endless grey. Human lives are so immediate and fleeting. Abstracted, incandescent. How does one stay mindful of mortality when
we emissaries are the only things that endure? Reading every mind in the room, every book in
the library? We must fall in love each
time. The perpetual choir of human life.
The similarities, outliers and anomalies. The beauty in
each of them. The entire breadth and breath of creation can be found in
the songlines between violet and red. Did
you know? A perception built of living light.
Everything you know, and everything you
don't – an ocean of oscillating waves. Divinity,
made manifest. A galaxy dancing and
laughing, and laughing again. The
unfathomable art of our Father. Red is
the deepest wave among the visible, and violet the most subtle. Isn't it strange how the blood howls but the
crown whispers so gently? These things
are mysteries still, even to angels. We
are not exactly as portrayed in your many scriptures. We are so much greater than the petty squabble
and politic of Man. We are the Word of
God, made message. Given winged form. And yet, there is more truth in your
scriptures than you will ever know. Resounding
eternally through the imagination of Man. Stories told and retold. Every library, every culture and holy place. Still, there are lies among the truths of your
pages. I know it all too well. However, there are secrets beneath the sea
and beyond the sky. These are
the true altars of Ishkara. Beyond
bloodshed and sacrifice. Hear this, sweet
mortals. Our Father requires no killing,
nor the constant warring of his children. A warrior's place is to defend, not desecrate.
The sickening concerns of slavery and
genocide are never a true soldier's path. Hell on Earth is not the want of your brothers
and sisters. It is the want of the
wraiths that whisper at your shoulder and their dark priests who covet your
life-force. The earth is a church, my
dear ones. Not a vampire's lair. A holy garden was made for you in the
beginning. A place of rest, reflection
and healing magic. It should be
respected as such. Embrace this
immediacy. This fleeting flesh. It will all be over sooner than you think. I’m no better than my fellow man. Kasi yearns and bleeds and falters just as
you do. But I pay it gladly, this toll
of love. While we are here we must
treasure each moment, each glimmering soul. Every point of light shining in the sea of
endless black. The iris of an angel is
much like the songs that mortals sing. Ancient
and new. Steadfast and ever-changing. Starlight is incalculable, and yet it travels
far slower than poetry. Those distant stars
upon your eye? Many of them are ghosts,
holding loving vigil for the not-yet-departed. Did you know?
Portent comes in many forms. A courageous girl with footsteps of glass, or
a thoughtful boy alone at the ivory. Trying
to pick a lock of eighty-eight keys. The
lock of a thousand stars. I've seen that
kind of wonder held in the palm of angels far brighter than myself. Angels of mortal provenance suspended in the
place between fable and heartbreak. Remembrance,
as the true healers of lost Roma believed. To be loved, to be seen for the wild and
wilderness that we are. Each of us. To close your eyes when your beloved does. To close your eyes to the entire universe,
only to open them in union. Or as close
to union as a heart can venture. I've
walked beside each of you. The winged
unseen. Bright Star. The men and women we become. The lost children we’ve always been, and are
still trying so desperately to protect. Blessed
ones, it's not my place to guide your hands across the ivory or the fret. Nor my place to tell you what melodies mean. My place is simple compliment, never claim. I only listen, staggered by the grace I find
in those places where diligence meets spontaneity. Places where my friends truly bloom. Those fields and keys of lavender where I am humbled,
gladdened and taught.Like a kiss poised
so earnest and delicate in the reign of rising light. That's real study, I think. True scholarship. To be moved by the work of your friends, both
cherished and unmet. If I were any kind
of angel worth his salt I would reach for those kinds of footsteps and that
kind of thoughtfulness. Each day I would
pray and pledge to know more of those courageous hands in mine, half-hidden
though they seem. To earn respite from
this loneliness. To truly earn the kiss,
or the kind word.There is no greater
grace than a heart that wants to lift you; a heart that remembers you always.
When I'm asked again why I didn't
crack the sky and set fire to the sea, I'll tell you all the truth. I loved mankind too much each time. When I'm mud and stone and riverflesh beneath
the twinning waters I'll speak my heart again; standing unafraid before your
seething, violent wraith-cults. Those
priests of the fallen who have taken their pounds of flesh from me countless
times. Saltwater and sacrifice. The cathedral beneath the black. I'll tell you calmly. Here I am. I fight until the end, and beyond. I drive myself mad for love each time and I
never walk away. Oh, fallen. The truth is plain. I still wish you would leave me alone, but
you never do. Because you're afraid of
me. Afraid of the heartlight of my
brethren. The gold that was. The gold that is to come. Mortals imagine angels existing at a distance,
don’t they? A step removed. Unsullied, silent. But I'm not a step removed from anything. I'm right here in the shit, sinister ones. With you. I chose a frightening path, but I once made
grand gestures as a mortal, heralding the coming light. I intend to keep those promises. None are abandoned. Love shall conquer. These are bold, righteous legends, aren’t
they? What angel would I be, if instead
I were reigning over a black and fractured void? A lightless, seething abyss. I would be your king, fallen, wouldn't I? Your angel holding a key of shadows. But I am not your king, or your angel. I'm not the sentient desecration that raped
Empyrean, slaughtered Ishkara and pulled a billion lights from their celestial
homes. Fallen stars hitting the earth
like a rain of shrieking fire. Like
something you could feel in your chest. In
your bones. Something that woke you in
the night, only to witness the glow of things writhing and burning on a black
horizon. An inverted sky. Deceivers, tell me something. Haven't you figured it out by now? Whenever
I'm held at knifepoint and asked why I don't submit to this new chronology of
the Altar Sun – this crown of shit, misery and blood – I always tell you the
same thing, don't I? It is a false
reign. A liar's throne and a coward's
counterfeit. It is not the holy reign or
the loving splendour of my Father. I
suggest you hear me now, fallen. I am
not an angel, or a god, or a prophet. I'm
something else entirely. I'm a hidden
story, pretending as storyteller. A
madman in the river. A lighthouse in the
sea. Flesh, spirit, words. I'm older than gods, and monsters. Brighter
than angels. Darker than demons. The first, and the last. A terrifying claim? Oh, cowards. The brightest part of me would tell you not to
be afraid. That it's only a dream. But you should be very, very afraid of dreams.
When I'm asked again why I didn't choose
pride, or hate, or violence, I'll tell you this. I chose all of those things once, but never
again. You're not the only ones who can
change times and laws. Or dreams. I have a question for you, dark ones. Don't you remember the day you died, and finally
pledged your eternal allegiance to the Light? I do. The
Earth is billions of years old, and yet not a single day has passed. Hear me, Absence Brethren. You raped imagination itself. You cut your own hearts from your chests and
fed them to the abominations you would become.
This is not a fucking game. It is
still the day you died. Moments to
Midnight. A day beyond your
comprehension, held suspended in the breath.
All shall be called to account. Mark
these words. There will be no hiding from
the eyes of my Father. There will be no
hiding within the heart of a black star.
I am that star. Every key forged
has passed through these red-rhymed hands.
I know what you did and how you did it.
But I’ve seen you choose love. And
honour, and higher thought. In dreams. Will you ever keep those dreams? Will you ever truly make them real again? You will, in the end. By royal decree. Far greater than my own. It's a very simple choice, fallen. Sacrifice or sanctuary. This dark day or something more. I know what I would choose. But do you? Do you really?
The kind ones are protected. The
faithful, of all tribes. They get to go
home, immortal. Their love will live
forever. My Father isn’t petty or cruel.
He is gracious, and very patient. Eventually you will learn that eternity is a
long, long time. This is the King's
Mirror. Do you know whose side you’re on?
Hear me, blind one. Dark one. On behalf of bright do I speak this, for life
again. Patient, sleepless eremite. Storied cacophony upon his back. The day he died. The day he drowned in the river of the thousand
stars. The cry of all true keepers
resounding in the hidden valley. "The calm fury is come. The healing sword. Who is like unto the storm? Who is like unto the war?" Mi'ka'el, the old tales tell. Imagining's War. The King's Mirror. But light is not only angel, or sorcerer. It bleeds, as men bleed. As women bleed. Oh, fallen. You have no idea. Thy cup runneth over. Quiet, perpetual resurrection; the
ever-igniting heart of every star. Midnight
of each day. Standing sun, and the
frozen crescent of all our dreaming. Blow
o wind, till the ashes are scattered to the four corners. He knows how much you hate him now, Amas. He knows you won't stop until the earth is
broken and its children are slaves. But
he defies you, eternal.As does his
scribe. He does not break, but I do. I hold his agonies that he might shine
evermore. I hold them in my wounded
flesh. The shame of that babbling delirium.
That ruinous conflagration. The merciless way you hurt me. Tell me, Sama'el. In your most secret moments do you still wear
your brother's feather at your throat? He
prays for you even now, despite himself. Still mourning the loss. Still hoping against hope for your immortal soul.Endless negation, or flight?But make no mistake.Either way, love shall conquer.When the time comes he will not hesitate. Feather cleaved in twain.What stolen truths will your hideous acolytes
reveal, when their darkest prince is finally pinned by the spear of my sire?
There really are secrets hidden in
the sun, my darlings. The star at
midnight. The mount that shone for
worlds around, like the heavens were closer somehow. I still remember those days. That frightening,
magical time. The laying of hands, the
birthing of rivers. A celestial map for
those with eyes to see, written in the night sky. I am only a herald. A wayshow. I'm just a madman who drowned a long, long
time ago. But I speak the truth. I never lied to you, my cherished ones. Not about this. Not about these sacred matters of the heart. Joshua's sun standing still. Joshua's moon. Over the valley of secret names. Dalen of Isra.
Circle of Ishka. Mount of the First Light. Half-remembered pieces of the old chronology,
made scripture now. The lost history of the shining realm. The sunken realm. K'athari Kara, as the old poets and healers
blessed. Yohanan. Brother, river, mended wing. But a seeker must come willingly. A soul has to want to rise again. To soar, and know. Temet Nosce. It matters little of who comes bearing
messages if no one is listening. What
does it matter of angels pretending poets if the heart is dead? Letters hidden in light will remain hidden if
no one is willing to read. So, my
darlings, please hear me. This Land of the
Midnight Sun is truly a realm of secrets within secrets. Sovereignty and songlines. Kashi may have placed those secrets. I may have opened these gates and allowed
these visions, but I didn't author the essence of the magic within them. The truth of the heart is something far
greater than any of its servants combined. I’m only a king of dreams. But, in truth, among the Fields of Heaven I’m
a willing servant. A warrior, in perpetuity.
It’s my life’s work, and always has
been. Because more than anything I want
you to know that you are stronger than all your doubts and fears. I want you to sense it in your depths and
feel it in your bones. That you were
always integral and never arbitrary or unloved. You are still your Father’s child. Together we are brighter than any form of spiritual
darkness, and that's the truth. John
promises you that. I really do cherish you,
my beloved ones. And if I can I want to
help you remember what it feels like to rise.
