The war in heaven came. We’d seen the signs,
But hadn’t dared believe. We couldn’t choose.
The rebels came to us, but we refused
To serve their prideful leader. And the skies
Were like a sheet of boiling fire. The eyes
Of all the seraphim were fixed and mean,
As if they meant to burn the angels clean,
To scour the bones and leave them white and bare.
Great waves of indigo passed through the air
And melted all before them, to the sound
Of jarring, prideful trumpets. All around
The clash of arms was all we heard. The strings
Had fallen silent, and the choir that sings
Before the Throne caught fire and was consumed.
The stars wept tears of light. The sun and moon
Screamed “Stop it! Stop it!” but they went unheard.
We watched in fearful wonder as the Word
Pronounced its doom on all of those who’d erred.
Some wept in terror, others in despair.
Our hands were raised in prayer, but whom to praise?
That drunken killer, God? Or those who’d raised
The flag of war because they would not serve?
“We curse you both,” we said. “You don’t deserve
The love of men or angels.” So we fell.
They cast us out of heaven- not to hell,
Since, after all, we’d never raised a hand
Against our own Creator. We were damned
To dwell among the hollow hills and live
Through centuries uncounted. Kings and queens
Of innocence and other hopeless dreams.