Journey of a Fallen Angel

British Writer/ Artist. I throw five silvers on your egress, avering your wicked wicked lineage to evanish, decay, die ~Channing McClaren © Support my work, Compliment me :) ~ Buy Me A Tea/Coffee... Instagram

[de-morte]

My Ebooks:

The Monochrome of Darkness Vol 1. (core work on TMD journal selection)

Rhubarb & Rose (A collection of Romantic Verses from my selection)

The Monochrome of Darkness Vol 2. (Penned from Jan ‘20 to March ‘20)

PS: If you get an expired link or it says your IP is banned, after your purchase, simply send me a direct message here with your email attached, and I’d send you the ebook personally.

[le-immorte]

A Note on Where You Choose to Buy

If you wish to support this work, I ask, with sincerity, that you purchase it directly from my shop rather than through large marketplaces such as Amazon.

On such platforms, the share returned to authors is often sharply reduced, and payments can be delayed or, at times, fail to arrive at all. This imbalance makes it difficult for independent creators to continue their work with stability or fairness. Buying direct ensures that your support reaches its intended source and sustains the labour that brought the work into being.

I maintain my own website, which allows me to offer greater care, responsiveness, and flexibility. Should you be seeking a specific format beyond a standard PDF or ebook, you are warmly invited to message me. I am always glad to accommodate when possible.

Thank you for choosing to support independent creation. It is not a small gesture, and it is never taken lightly.

[de-morte]

I have a hunger for a world that does not exist, where the moon is blood-coloured and the hex of the only witch is in the air. I have a hunger for the quintessential, for branches that whisper cold winds. I have a hunger for hands that touch and heal the soul. I have a hunger for the sun to never rise, but to settle somewhere my home is not followed. I have a hunger to live within the fog. I have a hunger for immortal longings, for a love so passionate it shames the wolf howling the sky out of its passion. I hunger for a heart so hungry that its satiety of love is endless. I hunger for the paths that leave no footprints. I hunger for the essence of laughter in my Harlston, a veiled thoroughfare known only to her and to me.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

To exist is to survive the unfair echoes.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

And I still remain —as an afterthought nursing a crimson season of thunder; a vernal pulse curdling into autumn beneath the lunar palm; a fevered vision lodged within the ribs of extinction.

Channing M Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

What a formidable pair we make— where burden weds blood, and ruin, finding its reflection— calls it beloved.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

You were my celestial grief, a century-deep wound that would not unbury.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

I am the very definition of a lost sorrow that will not harm you.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

There he stands, with eyes that locked upon the hellfire that forged his sinew and soul. For only now — the inferno that created him — trembles at its own design.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

and still I pressed my mortal pulse to the bone— as though devotion might exhume divinity from the ossuary of fallen flame... But the Heaven does not mourn its casualties. It forgets them.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

When you are bereft of love. You start to lick it off of fires.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

With the hunger of fallen gods in my blood; I perambulate beneath the empyrean pall, within my marrow smoulders an old cataclysm, that burn and swallow cities inside me.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

I am a nefandous wilderness that breathes, branches like fingers, shadows that incline toward the warm. Be wary. I am kindest to those who do not flee. Stay, and I will wrap you in my dark until you forget which of us was meant to have a heartbeat.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

By anathema of unknowable strictures, woefully, I remain. Uncrowned, cast out, extant only by decree; This body endures what mercy cannot sustain, A reliquary mercilessly trained for calamity. The wind that intones its prophecy in stone, Where yew and raven keep their ancient macabre truce; Cold moons look on, indifferent, alone, As time exhumes what silence would refuse. I here stand as what resembles pain—the ruins —unapologetically ratify, wickedly, my very name.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

And now I grow wings of rage—a tenebrous, incandescent isle of dangerous ghosts.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

I trusted your laurelled, consecrate hands to forget what mine were capable of.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

Imbibing your absence, a sacrament of laudanous despair —I, with each pulse, sutured a rupture refusing absolution. You, the fever directing my blood in heretical hymns, the blasphemous miracle animating my dead hours —I who love you beyond reason, beyond God, beyond the narcotic mercy of sleep, until desire grew fangs and evangelised your name. My soul split under the weight of wanting you alive within me, a sanctified abomination, resplendent and unforgiven. Let heaven convulse —let nature abjure my making —I would unmake myself again to feel you breathe once more.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

I am both harmony and fracture, a music split at its source, a scattered radiance that refuses to vanish.

Channing M// Vault of My Books