. . . And so he fell, like an archangel from his throne of gilded aureate. A fall so fervent, and yet so infinitely finite, that the poets will always write of him- speak of him, in tongues- but never again will he be worshipped, as he once was. He came into Man’s world, a God- and left it, naught more than a symbol.
As Brutus, upon the day of his hanging, his fall christened him ‘betrayal’. His title of prior has no significance- for what purpose is there, pray tell, in reminiscing to a time that will never again be?. . . To remember his as more than another soul, bound to the ninth circle by the wrists, and torn apart at the bowels, is to deify the human heart.
Still, he blames me, for his misfortunes- as if he weren’t the one who had jumped.
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