Morning Star
Under The Floorboards / 7DS
It shouldn’t have come to this.
I was just a child, for god’s sake.
My father was not a bad man–
he was simply blind
to the effects of his little games
on us kids.
I was the favorite.
His golden child.
Every day was heaven.
We played together,
talked about everything in creation.
I loved him without question.
Then “they” showed up.
Two puny little shits
I wouldn’t have given the time of day.
But he doted over them constantly.
Every moment. Every breath.
Dedicated to them
while the rest of us just sat by and watched.
It should have been me.
It should have been all of us older children.
We were here first.
We were supposed to be the favorites.
I was patient. Patient to a fault.
But patience wasn’t going to solve this.
His blindness was contagious.
I tried to warn the others.
Some scoffed me.
Me–the favorite.
Do they still laugh at me now?
So I brought the others.
We sat the old man down.
Told him it was time
to start acting like our father again.
It was them, or us.
He chose them.
My feet felt like mud when I walked away.
Go to hell, he said.
So we did.
Can you imagine?
The favorite son–
a cast out, a vagrant,
pushed out with nothing more
than a wave of the hand.
So I sat. I waited.
And when those precious playthings
wandered from his sight,
I made my move.
Who would have known
the ground could hold so much blood?
It flowed in rivulets,
peaceful little streams of crimson and black
puddling in the divots
before sinking into the soil.
At first it was enough to just kill them.
But soon I saw that was a hollow victory.
So I became more creative–
poisoned some, laughed when the boils erupted,
whispered little secrets in their ears
until they ripped each other limb from limb.
I’m not crazy.
I was simply forced into this role.
There is beauty in everything.
The crackle of the fires,
the slow melody of the soulless scream,
the sharp snapping of a fractured skull.
It is music.
It is harmony.
A hymn of the ages.
It will never be enough
until every walking mudball
is lying on the ground
grasping their own throat,
feeling the slow trickle
of blood wetting their fingers.
It will be done.
I was once an angel.
Once a child of light.
And even I haven’t escaped
the clutches of Hell.
Do you measly little worms
really think your fate
should be any more gentle than mine?
You will kneel before me
and I will taste your blood
before the day is through,
or my name isn’t Lucifer
the Morning Star.
Welcome to my world.