#morpho butterfly

We hear you, O Ancient Sun, your silence ringing out, screamed across the cosmos, like a finger around the rim of a crystal glass We see the Star at the heart of you, how it blazes in supernova eternal despite the millennia long passed, how you hardened yourself into a deathless forge around it, fed by a will unbreakable, a fury unquenchable, until it was brilliant enough to blind, to burn, to outshine all that came before... We know you, O Bright One, born from the forge of a different sort, raised to shine and to serve, icon, speaker, soldier, savior; We see your Heart heated and cooled, pink steel hammered mercilessly into shape, into something keen, efficient, ruthless, the first of four holy blades created to pierce the blighted Dark (yet not so inflexible that it couldn’t become, say, a Spear if it tried; that it couldn’t find Connection if it ever wanted to) We witness you, O Traitor and Betrayed, Hero-by-birth become Hero-no-more, how the War had followed you home (had it been there the whole time?) and made you question, made you suspect, (how could you have missed it?) made you fear those who fought so loyally by your side (how could you let it deceive you for so long?) ... There had been hope for you, you know, chances aplenty, paths alternative, a thousand-thousand ways to grow, to heal, to wash your hands of the Void that stained them (the Spear proved as much), but oh, poor thing... you did not see it, you would not believe it, not then, not even now... We see it, though - yes, we see it now, the path you chose, for you did choose it: The stardust of one scattered over sun-streaked marble (over the headache-pink steel of your lance); The gasp of another heard through the shrieks of the crowd (ringing like thunderous applause in your ears); The eyes of a third filled with terror and heartbreak (though, in your fury, you could only see the former) You, O Villain once venerated, stripped of title, purpose, the love and trust of your own people; No wonder you chose to bare your teeth, to spit, to seethe, to carve a ragged, bloody wound in the universe in retaliation; Vengeance justified, you told yourself, for what were you made for if not to snuff out every ounce of Darkness in this world? (how long has your home been filled with such shadows?) ... We know, O Warrior once called Greatest, how you fell in the end, not to a foe strong and worthy enough to be your equal (that would come later) but to the very traitors who named you as such, who tracked you down like a wounded animal across the firmament, following a trail of fire and ruin and soot-touched feathers left in the wake of your most righteous mistake We feel it, O Fallen Angel, the wounds they left upon you, the ones you gave them in turn, when they pulled you (raging) out of the burning sky, when they bound you (cursing) in cold, ageless stone, when they flung you (screaming) like meteoric refuse between the pages of existence, where not even Time could reach you, where you - and you alone - would remain for all eternity (It was not eternity, of course... but we will not begrudge you, in your loneliness, for feeling as though it was) ... We see you, O Forgotten Child of Aeon, condemned, cast out, contained; We see the uncountable years you’ve kept, a river indiscriminate where memories both bitter and cherished have long eroded away; We see the precious few you managed to cling to in that time, the cruel red Ember you keep ever alight so that your hardened Heart may never rest, never break (never again be made so weak) You, who never forgot, who never forgave, who will curse the Stars that gave you all (and took even more) until your very last breath We see you, all of you, and so we ask... aren't you tired?