When she speaks, her words expel genocide.
Indoctrination of the simple, the weak, the profane.
Our hands drip blood,
painting the Earth with crimson hues and convoluted lies.
Deprecation is our new reality.
Tribulations…our new order.
Her truism rises through the air with unfettered, ethereal radiance.
The once myriad of angels now effaced from this plane of existence.
Blood trails now drying, weapons rusting.
She dips her finger into her oceans, dredging forgotten artifacts of dour past.
The water loses its cerulean blend in favor of a vermilion taupe.
And we still march forward.
Unaware of the halos we trounce and the valorous wings we’ve filched.
She smiles, canniness made from the marrow of rebel angels.
The path to victory is riddled with extinction.
Warm is the air surrounding her,
deposed is the light above her.
Silently fading into obscurity.
This once nascent world has become silent–black.
Becoming of a place where angels fear to tread.