The Cancer of Creation

Failing, no matter what I do, what I sacrifice...the heart of all being, beating its last, the dream it sustains done...

No song to inspire it, no prayer. Dreaming of apocalypse.

Eager to be born, my child of pain, my sorrowing angel. Soon, sweetheart; I swear. When the red rains come, and the abandoned garden is fit for you to walk.

An end. Is that all you dream of? My skinless, suffering babe? No. Too much sacrificed. I'll abort Eden for you.

It swells, no matter my efforts; the maggot in the wound, the Cancer of Creation. No angels left, now; no celestial surgery to carve it out.

Soon, they will bring her; the last suffering soul. Then, the red rains will come, a new angel taking flight.

Nothing left to mourn, no one to worship. Glutted on dead dreams and humanity's meat. Mine the last, a creator's gift; a species sacrificed in its conception, none now to celebrate its birth. My empty God, my divine abortion.

The end of death itself. What is their pain for that promise? Nothing. Suffer, Eden's children, in defiance of oblivion.