Cast aside, he plummets to the desolate earth.
Hymns of his treacherous heart consume his ears.
Tears aren’t shed, pleads aren’t wailed
He’s left atop the desecrated hollow ground.
Azrael, the Angel of Death, come
snuff out his remaining life.
Azrael, take up your bloodied scythe,
carve off his wings,
and leave clotting crescent scars on his back.
He needs his wings no more.
Kiss a crimson smile upon his neck,
he’ll not sing anymore.
Left broken, flies descend upon him.
The flies sing a song of lies.
Devouring the words, he wished he had heard
at the time of his descent.
Chewing away at who he was
Ushering in who he will become.
Neither an angel,
Nor a man.
But something else.
The flies swarm the pit.
His body lies at the center of the crater.
A crimson smile graces his neck.
Murky eyes yearn heavenward.
Maggots nested within his flesh,
eating away at his unbeating heart.
Crawling through his veins
Multiplying, devouring, transforming
The quaking rot of his new body
Bleeds veiny wings
that beat against the blackened earth.
His baptism is a vile mass of
maggots, blood, songs, and flies.
His new body
Ugly, but defined.
Flies dance upon his unblinking eyes,
He can’t cry. His tears have since dried.
The fall desiccated his eyes, stealing his cries.
Ears echoing with fading hymns,
He is dead but persists in consciousness.
Maggots worm out from his red smile,
forcing him to gurgle,
“I am the Lord of Flies”
The flies buzz in victory,
Using their teeth
the maggots squirm out of his orifices
hatching from his flesh.
They raise their bodies heavenwards,
In praise of their new lord.