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FIREMIST: A Parable

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On The Art of Death & Ferocity of New Beginnings. 

 

Was it the glory that drew her in? An unfailing fearlessness pressed against the shock and surprise of breathless rose petals waiting to bloom under angelic conditions; plenty of pinks and golds, grazing her cheeks by an unwavering Master’s hand - oh, and after an infinite millennia of metallic wars? You who be Masters, what is this? The adrenaline-d excitement of love bombing and beckoning for a Jedi lookin’ for action in all the wrong places? Falsities and fallacy? Was this an insidious charade for the warrior great, musing feminine energetic charms within the inner sea of a new incarnated self?

 

No. 

 

It was a challenge.

And it was accepted. 

 

 

And so it was, that a group of Angel Commanders were to born in a land of torment in the valley of tears to simply see what could be done. 

 

Many angels, be commanders. Many angels, ye know not — for the human eyes are full of noise and plastic. A seemingly endless devastation; warranting the ultimate, mean-girl cosmic eye - roll. 

 

And so eyes, are mother-fucking rolling, my friends. 

 

 

From new born babes, the Angel Commanders grew scales and feathers of dark and gold. Only other Commanders could see what forms were alike to them, walking through the world invisible to most. Through each step of life, from the very first infant cry to the gallant defeat of a dark Lord, they had to decide which color would be chosen to assist the next assignment and they were tested every day and every step of the way. 

 

And it was known through all Universes — if the Angel Commander chose well, the they were to become The Gold Standard, untouchable. A Living Sun. 

 

And yet, Egypt met Babylon and the land of torment descended even further into depravity. Many years and ages went by. Many were lost, alone and afraid. Dying and dying again. 

 

The Glamour, a glossy, saccharin bio-mimicry saran wrap for true tongues and formed mouths, used by dark Magicians placed all over the world in high position of power, were covertly positioned around all life forms. And for all this darkness, no one could see it- blinded by a toddler’s demand for hedonistic pleasure and illusions of safety. The Angel Commanders had no tolerance for this nonsense. 

 

 

The charades and masques put Nature in a cage and the Angel Commanders grew angrier. 

 

 

Ah indeed, more than this, anger became rage that became wrath. Their powerlessness consumed them, spurring more wrath. One of the commanders seemed to hurl herself over the abyss onto the edge of the world. 

 

 

Her Angel sisters stood still, watching…. with knowing. 

 

 

Instead of exploding, she began to implode into a numbed death of glacial, paralyzed ferocity, blanketed in a lighter garment of neutrality for the unseeing eye to sense only as something as subtle and nebulous as an invisible sheath wall feeling, separating her from the rest of this strange world. 

 

 

She did not waver. 

 

She waited. 

 

She did not waver. 

 

They called for her to come back. 

 

She did not waver. 

 

 

Chained to the sand by an invisible hand, she saw the monsoon coming towards her abyss, and silently wept from outer eye crests, a warriors cry from deep in her heart. But still, she did not move a slight. 

 

Laying back still and slow like a dancer crone on the Earth’s fine white dust, where the light meets the blue, the storm was coming to take her very Life. 

 

 

Her sister’s saw this and began to kneel in reverence, for she was the one who carried the sword. She was the one who knew the way.

 

 

“Were my hands free,” she thought, “I would light a cigarette and slow cry these precious tears of gold and steel, right here at the end of my fate.”

 

 

And yet, her Blue Eye whispered, “Remember, what is on the other side of death, child?”

 

 

A gentle sigh of relief at the notion, only known to her, and she began to let herself drown.

 

 A wry grin, without grief, she did wear as her crown. Tomorrow would be another fate. 

 

 

And so it was that the storm did consume her wild rage and grief and power until the chemical melding of the two forces: woman and element, collided in intercourse, roaring in decent from maelstrom to whisper: a shadow box of soul and woman and land, ultimately becoming eclipsed into nothing by the hands of Infinity. 

 

And when this rapturous alchemy death was done;

only a gossamer, embering, echo 

of etheric substance remained; 

a seed-like Light form 

expanding out from a sun like nexus 

against a white void. 

 

 

It was subtle FIREMIST. 

 

 

 

And a new world began… 

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