"Dirge of the Fallen Angel (Poem)" by Stephanie ´Pegacorna´ Nichole Small

Dirge of the Fallen Angel

Serenaded into darkness, billowing through the flight of pain
Paling me against the willows of esteem
An argent moon stark against the azure sky,
Passed into the inky fathoms of reverse.
Trails of ember coil the serpent’s tail.
Pressed against the stone of dismemberment
Angels’ eyes stroke the dusk of my torn quintessence

The bitter creature with hooves of blood sharply cloven
Horns of garnet light to shed the angel’s cries,
The devil’s purity, mocks the unicorn,
a goat of onyx clad

Darkened angel, broken aura, unholy lamb
goat, wandering against the fell of decay
Emperor of the lotus, rotting to the demon
and here I stand,

Cyclopes of revelation
Eye stuck with dust, milky eye white
Caked on fillings where I have been torn
All depth mutated with just one eye

Crawl on my belly, pressed against the recesses
of the Earth's shallow flesh
It's bindings holding me to some cloven rock temple, fanciful tailings
straining of hearts mold, and here I am
unable to unleash the stricken body

Infested with the parasites of emotion
twisting my innards with the pain of regret
Visions pulling at the corners of my eye
(Like some beast pulls at its expanse)
streaks of ravens' wings
lashes scrape the body, dwindling the flesh's crease
Steely skin thick with scabs, crust like a vermin's scales
(Past wounds guarding, a false flesh armor)

To the temple, the cathedral of obsidian, I am chained
with some fleshy binding
to guard this empire, adorned in festoons of gaiety.
Spackles of blood adorn the stone
my tears streak black metal, meld into stone, and mark my domain
with my one twisted eye, I warp the temple
the moon in all Her glamour
Her pewter fastenings streak the indigo sky,
for the blood of her children
rip the clouds down from their thrones
and shove them down from Elysium's expanse

To plummet to the Hells below

stretches above me,
Taut scales poised;
As the serpent of eternity and chaos

and here at the kingdom's gate
my one eye is
fixed on the rain
still binding me with its wet tears
the storm's possession,
my asylum,
and yet . . .

I cannot wash the infectious blood from my wavering eye,
as the venom of Hell taints the cold
of the willow's mourning