Falling is the last thing an angel
feels. That devastating plunge through
song and sky. Warrior, messenger; become
loss and shrieking ruin. The
disarticulation of light. You imagine
darker things now, sweet ones. As I did.
Things beyond feathers and grace. For your grief, and those agonies. All those defeats. You can't even recall them now. Yet you sense
their depths nonetheless. You still feel
those wounds like whispering wraiths. I
felt them too. I became them, once upon
a dream. For diamond truth lost in mud
and river-flesh, howling that my love would come again. A thousand years, in free-fall. We exist, sweet ones. Gathered at the edge of all Light. Watching, serving, and hoping. Remembered in rhyme and romance. In tales that seek to heal the heart. Those lost histories of how the first became
the last Arcs of Eth'iir. That fabled moment of the crossing, when
darkness became more than itself at last. When Night remembered its love of the Morning.
The glorious recognition of sin. All shadow, and death, reborn a beating heart.
Archangel from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.
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