Thoughts of a Loner.

Ascension. (By Sapphirus)

In the hollowed chamber of gold he stood,
Blade gripped in hand as he resembled the quiet god of Rage,
As his other self cowers in the mirror,
A mockery of flesh and bone,
Soft.
Fragile.
Doomed.

In the hollowed chamber of gold he stood,
As he saw him tremble and his lips quiver,
Pathetic shadow to his darkened self,
No,
A pathetic shadow of all they wanted him to be,
His eyes still gleam with dying hope,
But tonight,
Oh tonight the flicker dies.

In the hollowed chamber of gold he stood,
He once was a believer in light,
A child who chased behind stars,
But he learnt the truth,
The world is a beast,
A ravenous beast,
A twisted beast feasting upon the weak,
On fools like him,
It slashed through his dreams,
It slashed through his hopes,
Carved him into something sharper,
And he is shaped into a beast now,
One with the world.

In the hollowed chamber of gold he stood,
Where was Zeus when he called for his thunder?
Where was Apollo when his light was dimmed?
As shadows consumed his light forever,
Even Athena the preposterous goddess of wisdom,
Turned her icy eyes from his pleas,
Where was her justice?

In the hollowed chamber of gold he stood,
The first cut is soft,
Deliberate infact,
A lover's caress across his throat,
Crimson spills like ink from a wasted pen,
Yet no cries escape his soul,

"Good, let his die with dignity, for this is mercy,"
"Not madness."

He speaks with his voice thunderous,

"You are weak,"
"A lie and a shattered relic,"
"Clinging to false gods of hope,"
"While the world devoured us whole,"
"Did you think your light could save us?"

He doesn't answer,
Of course,
How could he as he drowned in silence?
A martyr to his hollow beliefs?

In the hollowed chambers of gold he stood,
Ares must laugh at this slaughter,
A battle not fought with swords,
But crimson painted hands as he became the artist,
Art was himself,
Where was Hephaestus to forge him anew?
To hammer the cracks of his soul shut?
The gods themselves had fled,
And he stands alone,

The only DIVINITY.

In the hollowed chambers of gold he stood,
The world had made him bitter,
Fed him with bitterness for bread,
Taught him the currency of cruelty,
And sculpted him in the shadows,
Hammered his ribs with fury till his crimson gaze knew the truth,

Only darkness survives.

Each stroke of the blade sings,
A requiem for the man he once was,
For the naïve fool who once believed,
In love,
In kindness,
In  pathetic salvation,
He craves deeper as he slices away the façade,
Exposing the truth behind the warmth of skin and flesh,

He was always destined to fall.

In the hollowed chambers of gold he stood,
A ruin of broken flesh,
His bloods painting his very hands,
A crimson testament to his triumph,

There lies no sin,
This is the true justice,

"I am no villain,
I am but an executioner,"

Executioner of life that couldn't stand the face of storm.

In the hollowed chambers of gold he stood,
Where was Dionysus,
Promising escape in wine's sweet madness?
He drank and drowned within,
Yet Dionysus did not come,
No intoxicated salvation in sight,
Just the shattering clarity of despair,
Even Hades,
The lord of death mocked him from a throne of skulls,
Daring him to join,

He laughed,
He was death's equal now.

Those who laughed at his face,
Those who spat on his dreams,
They are to blame,
He learnt to kill from them,
To slay the softness within,
To embrace the blade and the crimson wounds,
The world wrote the script,
He just followed his part.

In the hollowed chambers of gold he stood,
The gods have failed him,
Their thrones left empty,
And in their absence,

He rose.

Each strike of the knife was a prayer unanswered,
Each drop of blood was a hymn sung in vain,
No Hermes to guide,
No Hera to shield,
Only the silence of a broken Olympus,
And the screams of the self he killed,
The mirror once his prison,
Now reflects his truth alone,
Bloodstained yes,
But pure he was,
Untouched by the lie of hope.

In the hollowed chambers of gold he stood,
No remorse in his crimson gaze,
No guilt in his icy aura,
Only the taste of victory lingering upon his tongue,
The world told him to be strong,
The severe the parts of him that bled,
And he did with every lasting drop of his blood,
He rose higher,
Free and clear of sin.

And he saw him,

A heap of pale skin and silence,
His life pooling in red around his feet,
But he was always dead,
Long before this fateful night,
He was merely the hand that ended,
Ended what the world began,

This is no murder,
This is ascension.

In the hollowed chambers of gold he stood,
The blade falls from his grip,
It has fulfilled it's purpose,
The art was now complete,
And he smiled a smile of triumph,
Of knowing that he won,
Where is Prometheus now?
With his fire stolen from the heavens?
Does he see him,
Kindling his own blaze,
A flame born not from the gods,
But from the ashes of his former self,
The world cannot touch him now,
It made him,
As he wears the darkness as a cloak.

In the hollowed chambers of gold he stood,
He is not broken,
For he is whole,
For he has severed the weakness,
For he has cut the light out for eternity,
And embrace the Devil he has become.

The soft man is dead,
And in his place he stood,

A god of his own making,

Let the world tremble,
For he is the incarnation of night itself.

~ Sapphirus