the creation. the beginning, the crowning, the coronation. screaming the poems of a new age until your throat bleeds and old men and prophets cower. the start of something bold, something bright and brave and new.
conquest self-crowns at the dawn of the apocalypse — this crown of his own making: the fingers entwined, and with his bones he feels the tremble of the human fear beneath his feet. it lacks ceremony, unlike the creation of humanity: gifted, infused with such promise — with futures, with hopes, with good and evil and all the potential in-between.
that was then and this is now.
(the screaming under
copper rusted sunlight.)
this is the start of a new age: where humanity’s place in the cosmos shifts to accommodate those eldritch beings that plunged down from heaven with their deceptively white halos. where horsemen have a role to play: tools being dusted by their angelic counterparts, then set loose.
— horsemen & archangels || Eliot C.