Fallen

The Fallen God stood atop the peak, the imperial sun above His
broken diadem, above His shattered godhead, searing His wingless back.
A great lance in His hand, a brand of fire and apostasy, a terrible thing.
With a movement of blinding light and imperceptible speed, He raised
His weapon and thrust down the spear, down into the mountain upon
which He domineered, down into the Earth, through rock and crust,
through spirit and mind, piercing the veil between god and man and
matter. What wailing arose, reaching into the world, beyond the seas and
the lands. A cry first heard before sound was sound, when time was young.
The God awoke the Old Things, dispersed the lies and dogma.
What reigned before would reign no more. It would no longer be fear
that would be the principle directive, the false law compelling men to
lash themselves to the book or the cloth or the martyr.

M. M.