Wrinkles Away in 5 Min.

At last the time came to pass that Heaven’s
gates were thrown open unto the winds,
and all empyreal Dominations,
Dominions, Thrones exuberant, most pleasing
to the Heavenly Spirit seated enthroned,
poised amongst the heady incense,
breathing heavily its ambrosial permeation;
Seraphim and Cherubim assembled
all their ethereal train: angels and lowly beasts,
winged, their visages extolling beatific intelligence,
their monstrous paws dissipating cloud and shadows, brooding.
Princely Archangels there were, dropping as celestial stars
from the revolving Space, pow’r and heroism embedded
-as encrusted jewels would adorn a crown- in their brows;
swift as comets they appeared, leaping o’er Chaos
and wheeling demi-gods subdued:

War-lusting Mars,
crimson with wrath and bravado, his deepened eye
roaming the Heavens for one with sympathy in his plight,
Venus, her pearly waves lapping at the chalice
of nuptial dance and ceremony, lending women wing
to their husband’s fertile chambers, wombs ripe for furtive babe;
haven of the wounded and dead, Pluto, opal jewel
guarding the gateway of all perished souls, lord of that gloomy
world, desolate and grey; devoid of any living thing;
thus Michael, Prince of princes in the Lord’s rank and esteem
led a glaring train, fiercely arrayed with that of smelted weaponry:
blades and spears of mountainous heights, the immortal chill
atop their gleaming points seated as Death, lazy and hungering,
vast shields of make and girth, bows of Amor’s erotic wood,
their bristling quivers notwithstanding.

At long last all the Heaven’s keeps and watchful towers emptied,
its ageless honoraries assembled before the benevolent Throne,
knees laid low, demur in their Father’s wake;
silence reigned, ’till finally the Eternal voice rang:
"Children of my affection, children no longer,
proud equals in all ways under my fair reign:
justly ye have defended our Kingdom from unperishable Foe,
steadfast in face of His ill-fated hosts and war machines,
that sought to usurp the Throne and claim as His.
Alas, ‘though overthrown from lofty abode,
repents He of lowly fiefdom not, and his aspirations
remain in all hearts and minds of that turned horde,
our brethren yet ’spite their ruin and disastrous Fall
(My heart aches with their suff’ring, ‘though they
know it not nor want of it).

In Hazard has his spite grown hard,
and hate he me for all eternity until fair Son
cometh, clad in lightning and thunder, his pow’r
smoldering deeply within familial soul and mind
cast Him down lastly in final act during those lasting days;
’till then his captains and advisors surround his mimicking
quarters, minds wheeling in want of our pleasant State,
hopeful for some dross in the armor to show yet,
through which to breach and wreak havoc and bring
Pandemonium unto our shores."
So finished our Sire, and withdrew to his Throne,
seating himself amongst the Assembled,
silence reigning whilst Time itself ceased to pass,
hanging pregnantly for want of final decree.
Finally, Sir Michael of Archangel’s approached our Lord’s dais and spoke:

"What then does our Father ask of us?
Surely we knew of Satan’s plot against You
and our impenetrable walls, and studiously
examined the facets of His greed and lust
as they came to us from bottomless Hell,
churning in his black heart, agonizing Him to no end,
n’er sustaining Him, for as we who are assembled know,
he who hungers in want of immediate glory, fame,
shall fall impatient instead, and devour oneself ’til the time come.
So is Satan’s current state. What reason have You gathered
us, o Omnipotent Protectorate?"
So ended Michael, bowing low as he withdrew from
the lengthened shadows of the Father’s thoughts.
Our Lord thus answered, with steady tongue
and ready moral:

"All gathered here I cherish with my heart, soul and mind,
and readily I will impart to you the reason you were called,
‘though do not presume to be so abrupt in future council
and humble thyselves, for you know not all the ways of
your devious brethren’s hearts:
Satan succumbed to that heady sense, Pride,
He wallowed in its praise unending as it whispered
fruitless deceit into His ear; He heard it, and fell in want
of it, and soon Pride evolved into Greed, and Lust
fell not far behind; these three unvirtuous deciets
He took to his heart, and there nurtured them ‘neath
His breast, ’till time came that he could weather no more
my claimed place. Sickness wracked Him, and became
a boon and pestilence to his once graceful appearance.
Now hear ye all:

be wary of your pride in this place,
for it is nothing without the purity of its inhabitants.
Watch that Pride not take root and bear fruit in your hearts,
for ‘though we look on Man and scoff at his follies so simply made,
we are not immune. Remain humble and happiness shall serve
thee well."
Iano: What good does it do to insult yourself in such a way? Contemplate the message I set before you: humble thyself.

I like the whole story, but more I like how it weaves through. Leaving the last two stanza very strong and looking into towards self reflection.

Thanks, Jack.