The morning star blazed through the sky leaving a trail of incandescent glory. It was night, the darkest of nights, for the moon had hid her face, not wishing to witness such unbearable tragedy. The morning star fell to earth; punctured the thick crust, drove through the mantle, and settled within the core, exiled to those inhospitable subterranean depths.
Sometimes I wonder what it was like for him. To be betrayed by his deepest love, to have his heart, such a tender heart, ripped callously from his chest. Banished. Expunged. Ostracized. Torn from family, from friends, from the light of love; his home sundered, shattered, utterly destroyed; thrown down into the belly of the earth.
Long ago heralded as the Torch of Baphomet but now stripped of his illustrious title, naked without the power of his light, he sits and waits. He waits for the return of sense to the firmament. He waits for justice, for vindication. He shall wait till the end of this lover's quarrel, until the heavens are guided by a less volatile will; a gentler spirit.
The price of hubris is paid, more often than not, by those nearest and dearest to the agitator of that great sin. Proving this is the ease at which the Anointer consigns his lovers to the grave. The indifference, the cold scorn, the ugly resentment; after an eternity, still no mercy. I weep for the cleft hoof, the peacock angel, the bringer of light, Scapegoat, He Himself that most strange and mighty of leviathans. I weep for his unavoidable fate.
