The Anger of Angels

There are some who, when they finally resurface leaving Avalon far below, catch afire. These ones I like. They were edged off the rocks long ago, into the cool misty spray, the unforgiving shock of cold, damp darkness. Jaded landlocked simpletons, hook jawed, watched the light fade and expected the picture to be over. Fin. But the story is not finished. Great things begin with endings, it's the cyclical nature of the dark beast.
Sunken circles round the eyes, those suspicious circles of sight, expanding the twitches of the night into wicked abominations. Terrible truths. Hounds of ghastly bent. Repugnant, slavering creatures. Fantasies. Nothing but mist and incontinent silhouettes. Nothing to fear. Nothing at all until the broken ones become healed, until the lonely divers clamber back up onto hard packed earth.
Pillars of flame; totems of anguish expressed in rage. These are the true outliers, delivering unto the earth the strength of divinity. Bringing us back from the brink, from regressing into the apish barbarisms from which we dragged ourselves, knuckles bruised from pounding the dirt.
From the stone of the mountain, from the wave of the sea, to the tower of lies that spreads disease. We were born to burn. We were born to cast light.

Hinder

Restless.

My skin feels raw and worn, wrapped in sweat soaked sheets.

I'm anxious and I can't place the reason why. I can't sleep. I hate not being able to sleep.

Angry at engorged politicians; vultures feasting on dreams.

Carrion.

Bleached, skeletal remains. Wasted.

It makes me despise the lidless eye. The angry sun. The inescapable gaze.

Gives life at the dawn. Asks much more in return when the time comes to slip past the further edge.

These machines have never known conscience.

Soul.

The price. The final price.

In the wasteland you've got to go the extra mile to make it real.

Pretense of submission might appease those on the lower rungs but it doesn't do the trick here.

Serious sacrifice. Serious bloodletting. True angst, honest horror, cloaked in shame,

standing in the shadow of the tower of dread.

Life.

Can be punished, but never destroyed.

Passion can be submerged but never fully expunged.

The spirit of zeal is a bottomless well, which keeps drawing pure.

No matter the poison leeching to the depths.

Buying time. No matter.

Twisted empire.

Will fail.