His kind was not meant to dream—no, that gift
Was reserved for others. Not for him.
But he did dream—horribly vivid, raw
Dreams of blood and triumph and ichor.
His dreams ignited and spread and consumed—
Till there was nothing left but ash.
His lungs burned as if they were filled with ash.
The acrid taste weighed on his tongue—a gift,
A reminder of those he’d consumed.
They would burn, till all that remained was him.
His hands marbled with blood and ichor,
He laughed—the harsh sound scraped his throat raw.
Impatiently, he waited—with nerves raw
And muscles tense. By now the ashes
Had settled, mingling with golden ichor.
Silence hung heavy in the air, his gift
Bitter on his tongue as he waited for Him—
The Father, The Tyrant, the All-Consuming.
Waiting, with restlessness he was consumed—
But, when His wrath came, it was not a raw
White-hot flash—instead He sent to him
His Michael, untainted by the ashes.
This was His cruel parody of a gift—
To have his brother’s hands stained by his ichor.
Braced by his brother’s hand, ichor
Seeped from ragged twin wounds as he was consumed
By agony—his wings were gone, God’s gift
To him and his kind torn off, replaced by raw
Anguish—his beautiful, gold wings turned to ash.
Through pain, he prays to a God who has renounced him.
Thrones, Dominions, and Virtues all turn from him.
Only nine follow his trail of ichor
And blood—down, down, from glory to ash,
The Morning Star falls, his dreams consumed
By his terrible pride and awful raw
Hope for something better than His twisted gifts.
Pride failed him, and by wrath he was consumed.
With skin stained by ichor and wounds raw,
He waits among the ashes and scorns God’s gifts.