Originally Posted: 12/2/08
There are nails in my hands, I'm martyred for the cause, but even the bad die before their time. Warm life trickles like water from a leaky faucet, following the paper trail of injections to my elbow and dripping down to slake the desert's thirst. I have never wanted for anything more than I've wanted for you. And that's enough, for once, just wanting. My shoulders ache and the sinews pop, a surge of new pain and it fades to the background. Dislocation discord. Brand new ideals, repeating the pattern, whipped and weak. I am His dishonored Son.
Pandemonium rises from the plateau, surrounded by the Furnace, it towers above me. Steel and stone, a twisted replica of the Palace of my Father. The home of festering evil, black bile rivers flow thick from its grim foundation. Trepidation. Mount the stairs, one by one, perverted, like everything else here. The Morning Star is homesick for Heaven. Hard to blame her, but I'm not convinced.
This isn't cryptic, its poetic. I've arisen anew. Christ, and I'm back from the dead, assholes.
Bring me not your sick and weak. Bring me not your dying, your infirm, your pathetic wretches. Rather, bring me the strong, the hale and hearty, bring me your warriors and ten thousand swords. Bring me bows and machines of war. Bring me thunder and fire, bolts of pure power that will fly from my hands. Bring me night and day, sun and stars, bring me the very essence of Heaven, that we may march against its golden gates. Bring me armies, and I will show you my Kingdom.
War is coming. Be not against me.
Choose your allies wisely,
S.R.
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