The thorn of flowers
Aster dazes between the thin line of conscious and unconscious. Her beauty even in this hour is unparalleled.
She howls beautifully into the world, her eyelids still shut as she does. Deep within me, it pains to see her hurting, and crying so badly. Her cries are eerily beautiful.
He emerged. The savior of the world and the pinnacle of purity. The orphic egg. My son. My son and I will save the world together, cleaning it of all the impurities of this wretched world.
Tears slither down the sides of my face as I watch the sight unfold.
I can’t, I can't, I can’t…
But I have to.
Is it me?
I’ve never questioned why I’ve loved the scream of the punished or the beauty in the scarlet-red hue that is so unique to blood. I don’t know why.
But as I walk towards her and swerve through the currents of people. I watch my child, the pinnacle of the world, my Orphic egg. The world is so beautiful at this moment, I almost want to forget about all the voices screaming, telling me it’s time, telling the master that I don’t want to take up the mantle and save the impure. I want to hold her and my Orphic egg. I want to hold them and only cherish them.
But I can’t.
I have to sit here. Betrothed to my sacrifice. Like a pawn. No, less.
Chained. By god itself. Awaiting a promised world that I might never actually see.
But I don’t mind saving the world and then saving them. I suppose I must purify my family even if it means I harbor their impurities and that of the world. Even if it means I won’t be able to hold them.
I’ll have saved them?