forgiveness is a knife — War’s capacity for it is nonexistent being spun from the abyss into an abomination that is set to bring the apocalypse; because if the horsemen had been birthed instead of made the change in their fundamental understanding of humanity would make them unable to accomplish their task.
And she, having spilled onto the asphalt like napalm and risen from the burning fields with a sword, has a job to do.
A prophet prays inside a neon church with the Antichrist at her side, her eyes are fixed on the roof of this cheap Vegas chapel that promises elicit lovers a legitimacy to their feelings; a contract that is impulsively signed, and too soon taken back.
A long time ago her hand was forced onto sand, she signed away: her tongue, her heart, her mind, her soul; became the mouthpiece of an absent God that returns to chew on her tongue until it bleeds.
She kisses him the first time beneath these neon lights, her mouth tastes like copper. His
childhood grasped
between her spindle and stars, she threads his past, present, future with hers — precise even promises with each incision. These hastily made oaths have no unstitching. Haven’t you heard? It’s the end of days.
The horsemen are coming. Unveiled eldritch monstrosities that have been starved for eons in their sleeping coffins beneath the throne of God, where their mouths had opened and closed with infinite rows of teeth; choirs of angels watching these tools slumber.
Now that they are awake they need:
broken promises,
closeted sins,
sorrow
The honey-veined pattern of the church’s floor glows neon yellow, the prophet on the tips of her toes whispering words that fall like jigsaw puzzles. He gathers each piece for later, suppressing a shudder when she lets him know War is waiting for them outside.
The Antichrist is awake, and God’s tools have come to pay their respects.
— Horsemen & Archangels || Eliot C. ©
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