.˳·˖✶Seraphim ✶˖·˳.

To be made of flesh is a grave humiliation— cast among the impure, the filthy, the disgusting souls of humankind. // ELMW Further contact: Discord: seraphims_angel Reddit: Some-Addition-3165 Pinterest: RawrrBiteme

[seraphimsangel]

Destruction.

All we learn in this corrupt place, suspended between heaven and hell—

where man walks the earth with dust in his lungs and longing in his bones, beneath a sky that does not answer—

is not grace, nor mercy freely given, but a bitter knowing, pressed deep into the soul:

the sacred knowledge of our own undoing.

We build our altars from pride, kneel before shadows we have named divine, and drink from wells that leaves us thirsting still.

Our hands, meant for creation, tremble with ruin; our voices, shaped for praise, echo with fracture and fall.

And still we reach— toward light we cannot hold, toward salvation we scarcely understand— as if somewhere beyond the veil

there lingers a whisper not of wrath, but of something gentler, something we have forgottenin the long, slow study of destruction.

[seraphimsangel]

Cradle This Curse

Cradle this body a vessel swollen with corruption, skin blistered and crawling with maggots, tendons unraveling like frayed cords of a ruined temple. Can you bear what bleeds beneath the flesh, what whispers from the marrow like sermons of rot?

The air trembles with locust wings, shadows slicing the dawn like sharpened flint. A dove falls, neck snapped, feathers slick with oil and filth. The sky presses down, polished and merciless, its light a hammer cracking the skulls of the living.

Icarus would have wept here, his eyes blistered with fire and ash. The waters rose to swallow him, salt gnawing at torn flesh, drowning prayers in mercy too late to matter.

If loving me is a plague, will you kneel in my shadow?

Rot coils beneath my ribs, worms preaching a slow gospel through bone. Flesh and disease fuse in my veins, a communion of corruption. I ache for devotion that reeks of death, for beginnings strangled before they breathe, for depths that swallow hope whole, for Leviathan’s jaws pressing against my chest.

Endure what I am.

My hands burrow into the hollows of your flesh, searching for warmth like a surgeon of ruin. I kneel on altars of shattered bone, pressing my face into stone wet with residue of sacrifices. The air tastes of ash, iron, and plague.

My spine bends until it cracks, vertebrae groaning like gates of a tomb. Will my words carve themselves into your tongue, or drip unheeded into the plague-swollen earth? Even the sweetest fruit blooms only from wounds, its juice bitter with blood and decay.

I watch you fold into yourself, head bowed, back broken, mourning a heaven that turns away. Your prayers crawl from your lips like maggots from a carcass, rattling over abandoned stones.

Old wounds, stitched with trembling silk, remember every thorn, every hammer, every knife carving obedience into tender flesh. Cartilage weeps like rotted fruit, fermenting in still air, bitter and foul, swallowed and spat.

Your blood scorched my skin, blisters erupting like miniature caldrons of fire. I wear them as stigmata of pestilence, holy marks for a god who does not come. Angels hang from rafters, wings shredded to ribbons of bone and sinew, their bodies fused with mold and ash, mouths frozen in silent, choking hymns.

The lamb lies gutted upon the altar, its flesh cold, eyes wide, staring at a heaven that never answered. And we kneel in the spreading plague of its blood, hands trembling, tasting nothing but ruin. me The sky will split open. Graves disgorge the dead, their bodies crawling with vermin, pestilence gnawing into cities, into houses, into veins, dragging blackened fingers through the mouths of the living.

Tell me when the trumpet tears the heavens apart, will you cradle this cursed, decomposing body, or cast it aside, letting worms write the final scripture across my bones, flesh fusing with rot until the world itself forgets me?

-ELMW

[seraphimsangel]

Rotten Angel

To be made of flesh is a grave humiliation— cast among the impure, the filthy, the disgusting souls of humankind.

To be consumed by death, to be washed clean of sin, to shed this skin and become something holy— that is all I crave.

I wish to be an angel of rancid and rotting dreams, a creature born from decay, from sickness, from bitter, festering silence.

For I am sick, rotten, bitter— yet still a delicate little angel, waiting patiently, wings folded in quiet devotion,ready to snap the neck of the next wandering victim.

-ELMW