Words of a Wandering Mind

I do not need to be presided over in my sickness. 

You shall not behold me as the ailment of Nothingness corrodes and diminishes my human self. 

Guilt will gnaw at your core ceaselessly, 

And I have not made this sacrifice

Only for The Void

To consume you, 

Too. ”

A  saccharine kindness poorly concealed by disinterest,  by rejection, by anger. 

But is it The Eye that angers you so, 

Or is it perhaps 

The fact you did not meet It in life? 

That you only met after you'd died 

And been “chosen.”

Taken.

The knowledge of your time ticking on an incomplete clock

That it is you 

You who chooses not to 

Be like the Eye

To survive. 

As it uses

Feeds 

On the knowledge, 

Knowledge not granted to It

But taken from the unwilling? 

If this bothers you so

Why is it that 

You want to be known by the Eye? 

To be near it. 

Though you cannot return Its feelings in the way It wants

(You do not have the time to), 

Surely it would appreciate the company. 

Though you dislike the Eye, 

You may be the only one

Who does not hate It. 

You know that it should not feel. 

Not guilt, at the least. 

Over the consequences that it is not responsible

But somehow

You know that it will. 

Maybe, 

Because It failed to talk some sense into you. 

That;

 “Consuming, taking up space is now in your nature. 

Is it wrong if an animal obeys Its nature?”

You found this offensive. 

You all but plugged your ears 

Refused to listen

You clued in again when the Eye

Cried. 

You did not know it was able. 

No one did. 

“Just because you have already died

Does not mean that you should-

Should

Get yourself killed again!” 

You knew then that you could not stay. 

“To serve a Fear is not the sin that you think it is, 

Angel. 

You can, you will, survive without causing… 

With causing only minimal harm. 

You mustn't give in, I won't let you

I can't let you feed yourself to it!”

You left it wondering

You think you did, anyways

It can wonder

That is fine with you. 

Wonder if you lived or died

Some things aren't worth knowing. 

This is another one of my poems that looks much better in docs:

(from a vast aligned local silly)

TW: blood, death, religious themes

Castiel, the shield of God. He would be the one to survive the Great Turning of the angels, as he is the only true loyal follower. 

 He is an extension of God's arm, while the rest are messengers. Detached. When they turned on the holy one, and the onslaught of a terrible war occurred, Casteil remained loyal. He fought millions to protect his creator. 

The day of The Fall, the angels whispered the truth of the divine secret to each other, the knowledge they had found was enough to undo aeons of devotion and servitude. The bringers of peace brought riot and bloodshed upon the ether. Apparently, whatever it was that was considered the divine secret was something so senselessly abhorrent but so meticulously specific that it couldn't be considered anything but the unfortunate truth of the universe.  He slaughtered them all thoughtlessly for a deceitful creator. The passage of time didn't exist to him, the transience of the war was hardly memorable to him. The only proof of it ever happening was the blood on his hands. The blood didn't stop at his wrists, it soaked him and his holy robes. The blood of his equals and the blood of his superiors, it was all proof of his righteous act and it dripped from him. He was stained with the impurity of those who doubted their creator.  If he had been bestowed a halo like the higher angels were, blood would traverse downwards from it to the abyssal plane of shallow water that spanned endlessly across the heavens. He had silenced them all, the only sound the sinful so called ‘paragons of virtue’ could make was the echoing drips of blood from his sword to the water which surrounded their bodies. God woke, and it was proud of Castiel. It was proud. That's all that mattered. 

"Cas████ We pray, we pray that you do not submit to your sinful inclinations. We condemn the devil; and his demons relentless pursuits to tempt you!" 

What? What's this, is it a memory? 

"Cas████, Listen to the lord! Do not act... In the name of the lord do not act upon the devil's temptations again! Devote, devote yourself..." 

Desperation? Mortal desperation? It's been centuries since such pleas have reached my ears.

"Cas--" 

"--tiel! Castiel, I command that you wake at once!" 

God. 

"Dreaming is forbidden in the ether, Castiel."

That's right. I am Castiel, The Shield of God. I occupy its firmament…  Along with… The other angels. But no more, for they have died. They have died and I am alone here. 

But no longer! A century has passed since The Fall, and my gracious God blesses me with its presence once again. Look up, look up at its blessed face. Or, rather, where its face would be, If the passage of time wasn't taking from it everything that once made it recognizable.

"There you are. Listen, for I have your instructions." 

What was that just now? My sleep has always been dreamless for as long as I have occupied the ether. I mustn't ponder it. It is forbidden. Dreams are for mortal beings, not for the divine servants of god.

"In the wake of The Fall, it is clear that you are my only remaining disciple in the firmament. You have done well, but the ether is in unrest. I forbid you from upholding the holy land all on your own." 

Good. I shan't worry any longer, for my lord is kind hearted, my lord will no longer sleep, and will no longer leave me t̶o̶ r̶o̶t̶  to my own devices! 

"But I will not help you." 

Oh. 

"The solution is clear to me. Go, my loyal follower. Go to the land created aeons ago, find me the most pure of souls to reform my army of angels." 

It commands me on a new journey, a new journey to rebuild what was lost in slaughter. But, I can't bring myself to comprehend why God would risk the truth of the divine secret being discovered once again.

"My lord, won't the heavens, reshaped as you see it in the forthcoming... Won't the new angels seek the truth again? When they uncover the secret, am I to shed their blood once more?" 

God has paused in contemplation, it is rare for a lesser being such as I to confuse it with my idiotic forethought. I kick myself for even daring to speak out against the holy one.

"Do not have doubt, Castiel. I understand you are young, and as young as you are, you are naive. Doubt is forbidden in my ether. You will listen to me, and you will reform my army! I command it!" 

God's tone has shifted into something truly horrendous in its ugly familiarity, and it hurts to hear its dissatisfaction. It hurts so much. I can feel tears well up in my eyes and threaten to spill. My eyes shouldn't even be able to do that anymore. I am the most pathetic excuse of an angel to ever take up God's space in the above. I deserve damnation. It should have been me, I should have died in place of the others. God intends to punish my misdeeds, and I will deserve all of the agony its divine hands will bestow upon me.  Why... Why must I continue to have error in my ways? When I have been so studious in my attempts to reach a level of devotion and purity comparable to the angels before me? Why must I have sorrow, if I have transcended mortality and become above all, now second only to the holy one? 

"I apologise, O holy one. Please be merciful, for I haven't yet learned to restrain myself as the angels before me had." 

I have fallen to my knees before it, clasping my hands as the human mortals do in a frankly pitiful display of their devotion. 

"I have already forgiven you, Castiel. Do as I say and you will learn to exist as my divine servant in the same way as the higher angels before you had. I command you to venture downwards, out of the ether." 

Dearest Nothingness,

 “Oh, Angel. Of no volition of my own, 

You have been chosen by The Void. 

It is the All Consuming Nothingness of this world. 

This Nothingness hungers, 

It hungers to encroach on the everything. 

You must feed it. 

Or it will be you it consumes.”

But I did not choose The Void. 

In my darkness, I retreat from the light that encroaches on me. 

I did not choose to be Vast. 

In life I chose to be small

Molecular

 insignificant. 

In all honesty, 

This is not much different. 

If I let it, this state will console, it will comfort. 

Although you all speak of me being “Chosen”

I still have choice 

And I have already made the final decisions 

This world will ever grant me. 

I do not wish to consume. 

I will not let it. 

I do not wish to encroach. 

I will not let it. 

I've chosen not to be a Follower

Nor a Patron

Nor an Avatar

Of The Vast. 

But to become It. 

Let It consume 

Let It encroach

 On what is still human. 

Let It feed 

On everything It hungers for.

I will become The Vast. 

Maybe I have always been The Vast. 

In a way. 

This poem looks FAR better in docs. Here's the link:

Most everything wishes to be seen. 

What happens to Nothing? 

What happens when negative space, sudden silence,  absence of light… what happens when It wishes to be seen? 

Most everything wishes to be known. 

What happens to Nothing? 

What happens when an unreachable horizon, stars long since died, a Vast sea… what happens when It wishes to be known? 

Most everything loathes to give up its secrets. 

But the mouth of the mute, the stillness of air, the bones of the long since silenced… It wishes for nothing more. 

Most everything loathes to be watched. 

But the Space, the Silence, the Absence, the Unreachable, the Dead, the Vast, the Wordless Mouth, the Still, the Silenced, The Nothingness… It wishes for nothing more. 

If to be seen, to be known, 

If this is something

Unattainable

The Vast will tell Its secrets to the Ill-intentioned. 

Even The Ceaseless Eye feels 

Displaced

Enveloped

Nauseous

When beholding The Vast. 

What happens when The Knowing

Looks straight into the eyes of The Unknown? 

And what happens when a deep, unsettling yearning 

Crawls its way into the fabric of The Fear's very being? 

Why is it that The Watcher, whose object of affection has always been knowledge, should give up in trying to Know It, and only bother in trying to be near It? 

No one could have predicted

That the eye, with Its  air of superiority, 

Should fall so lowly from Its pedestal

To collapse under the steady pressure 

Of this new, new to them, 

Human vice

It's lunacy that an entity such as It should feel

Rather than hunger. 

To feel… 

To feel… 

TW: graphic gore, violence

As he was pushed against the thoroughly vandalised wall of the alleyway, Mercy was overcome by a distinct and overwhelming sense of dread. It was sudden and unwarranted. His nerves screamed at him to push the man nipping and kissing his throat away and run as fast and as far as he possibly could. Mercy did his best to will away the feeling. After all, it made sense that doing something like this in a place like this would be nerve racking. He reminded himself that he wanted this, asked for it, and tried to focus on the attention he was receiving. The man stopped his assault on Mercy's neck to tilt his jaw upwards and capture his lips in a bruising kiss. Mercy still couldn't stop his mind from wandering, this time he thought about how hard it would be to explain the state of his neck to anyone after this. The kiss began to feel suffocating, and it didn't seem like the stranger would let up anytime soon.

Surely he should have pulled away to breathe by now, right?

Pressed so firmly against the wall, Mercy couldn't part the kiss himself without painfully grinding the back of his head against the brick behind him. He opted to put his hands against the other man's chest and give him a gentle shove instead, hoping he would catch the hint. The stranger made a noise of displeasure against Mercy's lips before finally parting from him. As he breathed heavily, desperate for air, he swore he saw a glint of red pass over the man's eyes before he rummaged through his pockets and produced some kind of bottle. Before Mercy could enquire about it, the man lurched forward and forced Mercy's head up in a way that was almost uncomfortable. There it was again, that dread. He couldn't comprehend it, he'd been treated like this before, and likely will be again, so why was he struck with an all consuming fear? 

His question to himself was answered when he first felt what seemed like two pinpricks against the skin of his throat. He struggled against it, tried to squirm away, to do something to prevent what he knew would happen next. Unfortunately, vampires are strong, inhumanly so. Mercy’s fate was inescapable.

The man pushed him further up the wall with a hiss, Mercy's feet were lifted from the ground, and he went almost limp in his grasp, a dreadful display of defeat. The vampire's fangs breached his skin at a cruelly slow pace, as if he wanted him to feel every increment of the tapered canines as they sunk deeper into his unwilling flesh.

He could. He felt every indent, every groove, the very texture of the marrow which invaded him. When the fangs had finally delved completely into his neck, Mercy's heart beat became inescapably loud. He felt it rattle relentlessly inside his rib cage; he could feel every contraction and every splurge of blood it sent down his veins. Soon, the pain at his neck dulled and became something imperceptible if not for the shifting of the teeth which had sunk deep into his tissue. He couldn't escape the feeling of blood leaving him with every disgustingly loud suck at his wound. No matter how he struggled or thrashed or cried, he couldn't escape. He was so overcome by these sensations that he didn't feel one of the hands holding him down part from him.

The vampire's hand came up to his mouth and forced it open with prying fingers, and began pouring a viscous liquid down his throat. Mercy choked on it. It was impossible not to, with its thickness and its warmth and its familiarity. His body's attempt to eject the liquid was futile. The position the vampire forced his head into left his throat open for the horridly warm fluid to cascade down, and he couldn't stop the instinctual swallow that led him to abandon his humanity.

Mercy trembled with nausea, felt it rise from his core to his throat. If bile had risen with this feeling, it would have only been swallowed down along with the onslaught of another's vital fluid. Tears finally escaped his eyes and they burned viciously as they rolled down his cheek. His sobs made him continue to gag and choke on the fluid tasting of iron, which he had deduced was blood almost as soon as it had first hit his tongue.

The vampire's mouth suckled at his wound another few times before it ripped itself from his flesh, which was almost harder to endure than the initial bite had been. Mercy's pained noise was muffled into a sound of gurgling through the blood, which continued to invade his throat. He wished so badly to be freed from the vampire's grasp so he could retch and dispel this horrid ichor which had been forced upon him. The vampire had stepped back to watch Mercy with keen eyes as he emptied the last of his own blood into his victim's mouth. After one last swallow, Mercy couldn't control himself. His whole body convulsed with his sobs, and he writhed in the vampire's grasp until it had decided it had had enough of relishing in Mercy’s misery. Still with a hold on his neck, he lowered Mercy down to let his feet hit the ground once more.

Mercy was weak in the knees and slid down the wall until he was sitting on the grimy pavement. He had expected to die and to be left here in this alleyway. He would have preferred that, over this. He certainly had not expected the vampire to stay with him briefly afterward. He had crouched down to Mercy's level, and held him by the jaw. He rubbed his thumb back and forth across his cheek in a saccharine sort of attempt at comfort. As soon as Mercy gasped and hurled himself forward, the vampire pulled him into an embrace, knowing of what was yet to come. A pitchy scream ripped its way out of Mercy's throat as he felt the growth of his own new and reformed fangs tearing through the pink flesh of his gums. He hadn't even noticed when he had lost his canines, having swallowed them along with blood. His body arched and twisted in pain, something that his aggressor could sympathize with, as he had once gone through that same misery. The vampire pulled him closer further, letting Mercy writhe in his knowing grasp. He attempted to muffle Mercy's high pitched keens of wretched agony by shoving his head into his shoulder, to no avail. The vampire shushed him, rocking him back and forth while offering comforting words to deaf ears. All Mercy could register was the indescribable pain of becoming undead. His wailing ceased, and he began to still, his breath ragged, throat torn raw. The vampire offered him one last squeeze, and a very uncharacteristic kiss to his temple.

He then set Mercy down, wiped his tears, and walked away as if nothing had happened at all. As if he didn't just take his life and give him a new one he was unwilling to accept. Mercy coughed up the residual blood coating his throat. and wrapped his arms around himself in the hopes that he could be the one to give himself comfort. He couldn't seem to quell his shaking. The vampire's embrace had been of some help, but as soon as he had come to his senses, he cursed himself for allowing it to happen anyway. He was exhausted in a way he never had been before. Sleep threatened to take him, and he attempted to evade her, but it was of no use. He could hardly move his upper body, much less his legs. He relented and allowed himself a shallow slumber, sitting in a way that would surely lead him to ache the next morning.