Falling trumpet

Here we came upon the story of tumbling world, as the presence thine own self

As he remembers, the forthcoming of trembling earth came knocking the gate of every house, of sheds of worship.

It is the day.

It is their time.


Here we came upon the man with golden trumpet. Yielding the horn of the last end, the beacon of apocalypse, the sign of reality’s final redemption.

He remembered.

How he no longer had the will to blow his end of the holy instrument.

How he felt the breeze. Such eerie eyes, chilling to his godly bones, a fright that never he felt before, of how a single innocent plea has called his tears to come dripping of his soul, of how he somehow found purpose greater than the creator himself.

That the sky shall burn in fire of night, that the ocean shall drown in the sea of mountains, that every soil would turn into living nightmare. He then saw such eye. Such agonizing need rushing into his mind, the most beautiful poison he ever tasted.

He stopped in tears. Fell for the first time in his eternity. Becoming an unknown entity.

But he stopped.

But the sky stayed bright and the ocean stayed blue.

But the soil stayed still and the tears stayed fall.

As he no longer an angel.

As it was no longer the day.

As it was no longer their time.


We came upon the story of smiling seraph, of he who no longer holy.

We came upon the story of the world saved by an act of sacrificial love.


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