The Meaning

February 26, 2011
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Of the leaves there was ash, and of the stone there was rubble. Nothing true was left to burden the world with its odd weight or insignificant composure. The creatures were gone, the monsters destroyed, the world had been perfected with the power of fire.
And he stood among it all.
He, the lord of this wave, this abyss that has sunk below earth and formed the dark creation he leaves in now, this world where mayhem is might and there is no life. In this darkness he alone can see, in this void he alone is filled.
There is no other to stand beside him. This lord is alone in his makings, in this world of ash and rubble, of crust and scorches, burnt remains and crisp stones.
The flame had consumed, and what is consumed cannot be restored, not to what it once was. What is lost is lost, and this, this world where the ash is the ground and the sky is always black, is consumed. Where the only voice is the one behind the man whose actions created this.
“What have you done?”
He was wearing only white, an angel among the soot. His wings, shining, never clouded by the flying debris and destruction.
“What goal dost thou serve? What hath possessed thee to create this world? This is not thy domain. This was for the human race to have, and you, being a part of it, should have enjoyed it. This was yours and you ruined it.”
The angel was calm. His tone never rising above the mild manner it was now using. The angel, with clean face, golden eyes and hair with gleaming wings and pure white robes found this man in black and spoke to him with no coldness, no anger. Only pity.
“It was gracefully laid at thy feet, the blessing of creation was sent to thee but you have rejected it. What is it that you could ever truly want from all this chaos?
Is pain not in H***? Does fire not lick thy wounds and scourge your soul? Is sin not the vat that thou should bathe in? Burning you with every scalding wrong-doing?
Is death not yours to decide, is the course of suicide not thy own option, a thing thou must give thyself, not others?
Is murder not an endless loop, where after all are dead there is none to take, nothing to fill thy hunger? Where the hole you thought was being filled only becomes deeper?”
The angel, now no longer mild, rose slowly rose to the fiery temper of the world around the two.
“Is it for hate that you slaughter, for nothing but the spite of others being human? For rest assured, this deed is done. You have filled thy hate! You have swallowed the world!
Is it perhaps in Lucifer’s name you conquer? Burning and torturing for Satan and the glory of H***?! For rest assured, thou hast created yet another land of d***ation!
Or perhaps, it is nothing but thy curiosity! Thy evil and feeble mind which destroys and erupts, craving nothing but taking everything! Dost thou dream of becoming Lucifer himself? For rest assured, more have died at your hand than any other! For not only have you abolished your brethren, your kinsmen, your friends, your family, your neighbors, all humans! No, thou hast also eradicated their children, they brethren’s daughters and thy kinsmen’s sons! You have burned the children of every age, slaughtered, massacred and ruptured! You have not only created H***, you have outdone it! You have become the thing, the reason there is a bane in any world, the piece of creation that was meant to destroy the others!
And for what, you stand there, in you black hood, never turning your head, never giving word to God for your sin, never even creating a confession for the thing thou hast done!
And for what?! You have killed and tortured, conquered and maimed, you have usurped Lucifer and trampled the hosts of H*** and now you turn your back to the hosts of Heaven, for what? What compels you to become a monstrosity beyond all doing?! What conspires in that skull, that weary and perhaps empty manikin of life that was given to you by thy mother, who was also never considered, and by God, whose words you have distorted and distinguished, ignored and discredited? FOR WHAT?!”
The angel, now silent, watch with furious indignation at the back of the man, whose black cloak blew in the wind, which blew the dust, which could be anything, whether it be a charred piece of flesh or a long dead bone. On the dust, coveting the dirt of its place, landed the only tears left in the world at the feet which were laid life.
The last word spoken by mankind, the thing which would do all havoc for whatever ludicrous reason, gave answer to the angels call.
“Love.”





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