The holy pages burnt slowly as it drew you closer into a darken rapture of sorts.
Ashes and soot crumbling from a wayward vessel, down into you, the sacrificial lamb.

You burnt the sacred pages. The fluttering flecks of a religion scattered around your scarred and bleeding feet. The enlightenment you sought was nothing but a false ploy; a world of innocents to crumble and deploy.

Balefully cries linger on the opening of trepidation. With the wingspan of purgatory, wrapped in nefarious black silk.

You!

You, virtuous martyr...

Abbadon's gate, with it's scaly arms, stands open and wide, deceitfully at the ready.

*The question is; Are you willing to pay for your deceitful sins?