Strange Meeting
ivory
Isolus is a pillar of ivory with a charcoal wince.
If I hadn't seem his creation, I would think he was a children's drawing come to life. If I hadn't seen him fall, I would have called his beauty divine. So, instead I will call him sensual since it is the only thing I can call him whilst being truthful.
I hide my heart on Earth from all eyes.
He wasn't cocky. He wasn't blasphemous. He wasn't bad. He just thought too much and angels were never designed to think, only to serve. The only equivalent I can think of is the geisha women on earth - barren porcelain dolls with voices controlled by the customer.
Even such a tyrant as God isn't fully heartless and just abandoned him on Earth - half way between immorality of the angel and the disease of humanity. I watch him torture himself - he eats not, sleeps not. The only time I see him drink is to take his daily teaspoon of sea water. He made himself a hermit - avoiding love and all it's treachery and he camouflages himself in the pale sands.
He looks up and cries. The salt water spills down his face and he hides inside the cove. I follow him inside, treading on the heavy air.
"Go away, Aether." he says quietly but I ignore the mellifluous sound. And our lips touch - accidental or not - and then there's something bright so bright blinding and screaming and singing and blood and blinding binding blinding light from the dark.
There is no such thing as Heaven. The milk is sour, the bees feast on tears. Mary's vulva cries blood from being touched and Jesus is the bastard son of David and you know what?
The imperfections make it real.
If I hadn't seem his creation, I would think he was a children's drawing come to life. If I hadn't seen him fall, I would have called his beauty divine. So, instead I will call him sensual since it is the only thing I can call him whilst being truthful.
I hide my heart on Earth from all eyes.
He wasn't cocky. He wasn't blasphemous. He wasn't bad. He just thought too much and angels were never designed to think, only to serve. The only equivalent I can think of is the geisha women on earth - barren porcelain dolls with voices controlled by the customer.
Even such a tyrant as God isn't fully heartless and just abandoned him on Earth - half way between immorality of the angel and the disease of humanity. I watch him torture himself - he eats not, sleeps not. The only time I see him drink is to take his daily teaspoon of sea water. He made himself a hermit - avoiding love and all it's treachery and he camouflages himself in the pale sands.
He looks up and cries. The salt water spills down his face and he hides inside the cove. I follow him inside, treading on the heavy air.
"Go away, Aether." he says quietly but I ignore the mellifluous sound. And our lips touch - accidental or not - and then there's something bright so bright blinding and screaming and singing and blood and blinding binding blinding light from the dark.
There is no such thing as Heaven. The milk is sour, the bees feast on tears. Mary's vulva cries blood from being touched and Jesus is the bastard son of David and you know what?
The imperfections make it real.