The world changes, we do not. There lies the irony that finally kills us

The eventual supernova of innocence undone. And that is a heart-breaking event. That is worthy of weeping and heavy lungs that struggle to breathe. The death of a star. The fall of an angel. He topples, wings scathed and useless, from his great height. He claws frantically at anything finding nothing, rips at air and screams so loudly he breaks the hearts of those within miles. A turbulent landing adds injury to injury, bruising, breaking, marring. Covered top to bottom, head to toe in muck-mingled blood, sweat and tears, he stumbles lost until eventual collapse. He crumples into the scarred arms of malignant melancholy in the form of woman. Embodiment of the wretched depths. And yet, maimed and disfigured, in the arms of certain disgrace, he sleeps like an angel.

Yes, yours is the slumber of seraphim. Mine is the fitful forty winks of the flagitious. And still, you loathe yourself, your actions. You see yourself, covered in the filth of sin, covered in the tears of those torn up in the wake of your fall. You see only the disgrace of your acts, but cast not one glance in the direction of the one who dragged you from grace. Even among us, you glimmer with goodness, like a lost pearl, slipped from the loose strand of a bracelet adorning the wrist of Aphrodite herself. From the brilliance of a goddess to the bleakness of the gutter at her feet. No amount of dirt, piss, alcohol or bloodied spittle can cover you so completely that you do not still brightly shine when the light hits you.