The contradictions of the prepotent

I wear my noose like a necklace, a heavy, bejeweled chain pulling my neck and body ever downwards. How ironic this is, though, for whilst I am perpetually reaching towards the heavens—when will I be inducted into the community of seraphs I have so longed to be an appanage to?—my mind’s penetralia sink further into the sanguine pool of Hades, that which he bathes in and lets himself be bathed in. Though likely the deduction of one at the apotheosis of insanity, the notion, incessantly making itself known, that I am not all different from a Greek god who never once was, is impossible to dispel. Pain can only do his work if his client is willing, and so, just as Hades washes his already-sanguine limbs with the potions of Pain, I let myself fall, deeper and deeper, into a state impossible to consummate.