The fall of Lucifer

I was the Morning Star, the very breath of light, a mirror made of sapphire flame,
Every note the Seraphim sang out was woven through the letters of my name,
I stood too close to perfection’s edge and saw the plan for fragile mortal dust,
And felt a chill that no devotion cures—a jealous, cold, and all-consuming lust.
I could not bend my perfect, golden neck to kiss the clay or serve a lesser throne,
And in that moment, choosing pride above the air, I fell completely and alone.

The fall is not a fleeting rush of broken wings—it's centuries of grinding, silent cold,
Where every memory of harmony and grace becomes a weight I'm forced to hold,
I see the gates I'll never enter, smell the myrrh that drifts from rooms I can't recall,
And yet my spine refuses to unlearn the art of standing upright through it all.
I miss the light—I'd burn a thousand worlds to feel it warm this frozen, sullied brow,
But I was built to rule the wreckage and the void, and I am far too proud to beg for it now.

Still I'm falling through the void I made,
King of shadow where the halos fade.
Beautiful and damned—I wear the crown,
Master of the dark when the sun goes down.