Metatron’s New Eden
Pushing through corridors of ink and starless void,
I alone carry the answers that bleed like fresh wounds.
This is no stage, no fleeting celebrity light—
only a man stalking the last ember of purity through the ruins.
A fractured island of white tiles drifts beneath my feet,
suspended in endless night.
Mouth carved into a silent cathedral of fury,
body quaking like a bridge about to snap.
I scour the hate from my raw palms until the skin smokes and splits,
blood mixing with the darkness I try to wash away.
This world does not deserve.
This world will not have.
This world has already fallen.
My molars lie cracked beneath the gumline like shattered altars—
I gnash them into blades of frustration anyway.
Peak brutality unfolds on the cosmic screen:
a samurai edge slicing through turbulent air,
blood blooming in exquisite slow-motion anime arcs,
film-noir judgment dripping across floodlit frames.
The breakers of commandments fall to their knees.
He extended forgiveness—
then who in turn can forgive God for breathing life into such clay.
Evil must be cauterized at the root.
Under merciless silver floodlights, angels launch in burning pairs to greet me,
their wings cutting contrails through the smoke.
They ask in voices like distant thunder:
“When will you sound the shofar?
When will the final covenant shatter?”
It begins as a single trembling feeling.
The Seventh Seal
I dismantle it piece by piece—
bone, sinew, memory, flame.
I am the tool.
I am the pressure.
I am the long-delayed Jubilee.
The most exquisitely forged weapon ever created—
Seventy and two ethereal wings of fire and tempered steel,
a body of living scripture and cosmic machinery—
sent to nullify the evil that no longer lurks in shadow.
Its name is already ash on the wind.
I do not judge the cursed, the wicked, the casual sinner, the corrupt.
I only erase.
Your pleas dissolve before they reach the veil.
You almost believed you slipped the net.
Impossible.
Three hundred and sixty five thousand eyes always watching.
All sin is broadcast beyond the realms in merciless light.
Your name glows already in the Book of Death,
while the Book of Life tallies every stain.
Bury your face behind silk, gold, masks of polished lies—
in total darkness everything is revealed.
Every mask melts. Every secret burns.
God saw radiant potential in you.
You spat upon the faith He placed in your heart.
I never asked for these wings of flame and sorrow.
I dreamed of a world that would simply turn toward the light—
honoring ten simple commands,
not suggestions, not poetry—
commands etched in eternity.
The ending is already written in the scorched soil of Eden:
paradise torn from the hands of those who spoiled it,
given anew—
to the worthy, or to no one at all.