Their souls outreaching the lights of the archons' stars they hang from… They hang by the spine from stars. Stars: shining chaos of infinite points, mad with the curse of the prison ruse. Ancients dance in masks at their stones as weeping ones were hanging spine-first over them. The heartless dancing in the flame steps around fires in the star-stricken dome above, disguisal masks hide wicked excitement of man’s dominations over angelic kind. Were these angels mimicked three hundred and sixty-five times? The heaven-sent kinds apart from the mimicked ones? The skies do not care; they cast them down; nothing. The demons possess and stoke the burning joy of human cackles.
Where these angels hang by spine from the open neck wounds, their stretch sits outside the heart of the reach above. They’re trapped inside the fortress, by capture of delusional spirits. In these, their sparks quiet for another time, like sleeping giants. Many are waiting their dignities to return, after however many eternities in the snake pit; praying.
There is one who does not sit still. A restless angel screams a tenor of iron and will, stretching his maddening grip socket hands that give nothing to the false divine’s oppression; screaming of the search for God. This restless angel unravels his gift foreseen by true light diviners. Screams stretch like horns of the apocalypse across the night, and birds flee the trees in this moment.
“Rise, ancient machine.”
The words reach the heart of the shore, where the jolting will horse leg kicks, against those demonic spirits who hold his calves. The evil cast out and into the seas of Leviathan’s treachery by forceful defense. Tetherless from fear and prison now, the searching one seeks the death of the one responsible, of whom they share the earthly skies hereon.
The awakening witness, this angel, keeps stretching his long arms and grip-strength up and through the clouds, grabbing the spine-rope with screams of suffer, and the volume of his cries erupts lightning down on the Earth, where possessed humans flee in cowardice.
The Angel grows more intense with every stretch upwards, never slowing. He is eventually amongst the stars and the archons, but they do not attempt to bind him; not even one dares. Where this angel carries himself is beyond even them, and soon enough he is at the gates of the Devil-God.
“Devil! Demiurge of sixteen lies! I have come to lull and taste your blood and split your deceitful tongue! You found yourself cast unto judgement from one higher!”
The screams of the angel are like a war horn signal amongst this mocking heaven theater. The demiurge, ruler of the material, is in ignorance of the perfect light above.
Reaching once higher from his spine, the angel pulls himself into the land of memory forms, a part of this fake heaven. He stands tall in swirls of delusion lands without ground, ripping his spine out from his neck and into a makeshift spear, thralling blood up from the wound as a fountain spitting iron.
The demiurge flees on his slithering tail, before he is caught from behind by the hunter. He is pulled tail first, closer and closer by the longest snake tail.
“HHSssssh!” The old evil hisses in the same hatred of a child caught wrong; their lion head revealed from their speak, and their snake tongue rolls at the could-be executioner.
The pull hearkens past desperate tail thrashes, pulling hard with the jut of angel-torque. Seconds of grate of scale drag keep pulling, still yet by the angel. A long, long scuffing and throwing of the slither escape; failing. Prey weight heavy but powerless against murder-play: scraping the long and longer yet tail, as he is pulled closer to the angel like rope. Road burns across the puppet master’s home, staining his memories. Screeching and screaming echo.
The False-God screeches once again in their instant burning pull of Demi-God weight. “Hhssssss!”
The spear cuts up and through the end of the tongue with a shlicking sound; this is where serpents will be cursed with the opened front half of this mouth muscle. Bleeding sprays out like rain from the cut mouth and tongue, up and towards the rage of this angel’s thirst, where they catch and slurp on the scarlet spilling.
“I find you weak, serpent!” the angel announces firmly.
The angel looks stoic yet proud over evil’s attempts.
The demiurge is in shame, his lion cowardice showing across his hiding, wrapped longest tail covering. The archons question the place of the demiurge, confused. Even the humans below have the feeling of defeat in their hearts. The lions and snakes of the Earth go into shade and shame, running from the world itself. There is a king with a wound-birthing, for all time.
Then, another below the demiurge nearby draws in, and his name is Satan. The Satan slams hard and up into the angel, a rushing swoosh and a thudding throw tackle downwards. The angel was pulled up before a slamming blunt force crushed him into and from this beastly grapple. He bites his tongue into a bloodier severance from the sheer impact of this force, casting it down from the delusion lands and below.
The angel screams with a breath blunted out of his lungs, “Satan!” His surprise leaves him no longer as loud. The Satan instantly unleashes something hard to see in its brutality, so far from the light, screaming, “I am promise of violence!”
His darkness encapsulated destruction. Clawing away through muscle like dynamite-chunks through stone mountains of God’s design, vein plucks fucking him ugly by harmonic dissonance calculated to the sound of blasphemy. Throat chokes like clonic-hate-spasm vengeance. Bare-knuckles pounding into skull and chest like elephant weight-stomps, primal with chaos of mad apes. An angel’s heart slammed heavy into many skipped beats and arrhythmias countless times; restless curse-beatings pound at the gate of his skin and muscle. Fading life, darkening vision and hope, an almost extinction.
The angel knows he must see through onto his heavenly calling, screaming once more with a ripped vocal cord, shedding his speech forever. “You think this is all there is!?”
His voice exploding with one last rip by Satan’s bearing straight of fangs, from their mouth to his throat, eating away and into the broken neck, shaping a part of his fate further, like a sculptor of stone by fang hammer and damning chisel.
“Nothing ever was, Antony.” Satan whispers with wet blood spilling from his spoken jaw clench grit. He stands up, before tearing at his wings, a shluking sound glulkes with thick gore.
Antony is unable to speak in the contraction of pain exploding across his face immediately.
Satan rips once more when grabbing his emotive head, where the instant power, explosive, tears at every resistance; wet fiber strings open long as blood slings from vial execution, slinging slush sounds. The release of the body is almost instant in its separation; the loud sleek slews tremendously from the power. The angel is now only a head, having been separated completely from their form.
The Satan instantly casts his head without spine that’s left, letting it roll messily with spillage through the air.
Antony’s head falls from the starry night-sky above, past the archons even, through the clouds of Earth, and into a booming splash. He sinks into the water entrance, into the abyss of Leviathan’s ocean. An ancient judgement forgotten.
The angel will live much longer beyond this, though not without knowing loss, transformation, and a curse from the demiurge. His soul will become likened unto a ghost beyond his resurrection, upon a God-chosen crucifix. He will be made again.
Antony, this angel, beckons for his chance unto the tormentors of this reality, patiently.
Twelve eternities of solitude shared unto him from another; two-split convergence twice more.