Agnus Dei
I awoke by the wailing of a cogitated miracle. Beside my room reposed a door to the elder sheep that had just endured giving birth. For eight years, her womb had been restive and coerced to perform as a sustaining one of rigid walls and synergetic veins. It seems that the sheep’s encephalon had been placed by her machine of a body, and so, she became nothing more.
Yet, this nothingness had already been of sufficient virility to believers. A sheep, a lamb, a parceled storage of meat and shiny platters- it was all of equivalency. Sheep are not supposed to be the guardians of our chastity; it is cruel for a being to become of sheer responsibility to another weight.
Before the fall, both of consciousness had directed themselves to their creator had the garden seeds not been planted sideways. This tied knot, however, disintegrated as the venom persisted through the sailing winds and disrupted the flawless system of the arcadia. Though this flawlessness is a sign of flaw droplets, it is of heresy to even think it.
The lament of the sheep- never had been saluted to bear a forgotten title. With the coming of the savior, it was said that these dainty creatures, like a calf and a dove, were spared for humankind attained the perfect sacrifice on the wooden crucifix. Yet this material of butcher is another creation of the seated, mirrored sanguinary blade.
The first stage: Mother. A lamb, birthed, nourished until the becoming of the sheep. I casted the warmest of suns and the purest of waters to feed her. Of calculation and calculation only that I was to provide the holiest of earthly elements into the tip of this creature’s tongue. This calculation was treason to the newborn, thought to have had a most hallowed possessor.
Then, the lamb becomes a full-fledged sheep; a forsaken receptacle of mass-redemption to its subjects. The mother, as is known, is not to have her sullen womb praised, for the mother is not the lamb. The mother sheep remains the future holder of the potential lamb of sacrifice.
The second stage: Lamb, eternal. Of six months they witness the starry night, unable to change the unmoving constellations. This lamb is wounded by the imperfection of the garden: A most luxurious sin in haven, broken by sole desire. The lamb is designed to undo this systemic fall from grace.
The snow milk has latched once onto the lamb for it to be cursed forever. This whiteness is thorny, however, for it is of immense prospect that it darkens. A grey lamb bears more rot than a black one. The black has completely transformed, any traces of the virginity has gone to be forgotten by flowing rivers. The grey is to be reminded that they once had all the snowy whiteness in their palm and still chose to be taken away by the night.
It has to be a male, it is said. It is forbidden for a tale to be of a solid-woman representation. Abraham and his son, Mary and hers. Son and son, no mother and daughter. For that, the mother is forever a vessel that is to endure persisting unholiness in order for the original holy to glisten. Although she tolerates more than the son and the scythe, she is not the worshipped holy. She is the used and abused holy, mentioned in name and scarcely any merit. The son, the sun, the savior, the sword. She, woefully, will forever attain the position of a crucifix in her womb.
Of grief and loss, deliberate deprivation.
Yet, it is melancholically ghastly that the lamb is the means to an end; a road to paradise figs and moving mountains. We think that glory is the furnished carpet needed to sustain this molding house, but the walls are reddening from clamor, and a carpet has no arms to paint.
The sky beseeches that I know it has seen more than it was promised it would. Too many farmers worship this lamb, but this worship is repulsive and monstrous. This plinth has this delicate white standing on it, but its legs are rupturing for the plinth’s concrete is of acute fabrication. Now the farmers have no lamb, have abandoned their places of worship, and had their silver coins escape their hands.
We give meaning as we plan on destruction. Is destruction meaning? Or is it a means to an end?
This lamb is not me; it is not you. This lamb is me. It is you. It is the me that is not me, and the you that is not you.
My flesh was once pastel, and I hurried to become the bitten. The scars were already becoming a sister shade to my moon-skin. I granted the wind access as I unbarred my windows. The curtains, white and lacey, never acknowledged kin to silver. I thought I would be of utmost security as I lied on the heart of the sweeping cruise. I sailed to gather the crops before their dying days, and found myself in the perseverance of a most radiating sun.
Never seen before. Never has the sun risen in such a bloody hue. My perfect gown, vestal and sweet, got hold of a most bitter ray. The waves, treacherous and expeditious, knew exactly of the lamb they were carrying to the false island of impregnability.
I was prostrated, teary, and crimson. Up the hill resided a chapel, poised and healthy. Its children incessantly came, like a current. From that moment onwards, the pastel was barely flesh, and the bone hollow when it was once hallow. The blood drained from the insides of me, reflected on my second Judas.
The sea will unremittingly remember what caused the blood of its days, whilst I will perpetually choose to varnish what is left of my flesh with the pigment of the night.
