The angel of the abyss

The knees of the abyss buckled,
fatigue set the demons free;
walls caving in to split eternity in two.
Abaddon rose from translucent rubble,
embracing the sky as it sobs.  
Flexing drenched wings euphorically,
trying to wring out centuries of disuse.
Sleep coats his eyes with its slight film,
radiating disbelief through reluctantly.

He hunts heaven with a thrill
of elation withering down his spine.
Searching avidly with scorpion’s venom
seeping from each tooth;
salivating for the taste of victory.
He breaches the rotting clouds of heaven,
smiling as the skulls impaled in the gate,
beam right back at him.
The dead are always the most fortunate.

Winged skeletons wear putrid flesh
with the pride of only a holy man;
faith is solitarily for the foolish.
God left for a planet with a little less oxygen,
and a little more fire.
Taking a wooden cross for his souvenir,
stained with blood from the slain.

The beast moves with a grace unseen,
collecting and weaving the fallen
wings together, to create his throne.
All hail Abaddon, the angel of the abyss,
now God to all there is,
and all that can ever possibly be.