It is the fallen angel within

That we should worry about.

The wings that have slowly

Been torn and stained,

The flute that has rusted,

Smile that has chipped.

She is dissolving

Into a world of thorns;

Soft skin is cracking,

Red lips are fading.

Her eyes bleed of hazel

For there is no light

For her iris to capture.

Long lashes have thinned,

Shimmer lost in the breeze.

---

Does heaven weep

For such a loss?

Wail for her return

Into a realm of radiance?

Or is imperfection

Something feared and revolted?

One dance with a demon

And the gates are sealed.

The Sun looks down upon her,

Remote and callous.

Her stars have weakened,

Diminishing into the abyss.

Even mother Moon turns her head,

Leaving the dark craters of her face

To furnish bitter solace.

No water is replenishing,

No fruit is sweet and gratifying.

Only the taste of revenge fills her cup

Starving still for a whisper of wind.

---

Red rain is her comfort,

Blood cleansing her hands.

With endless ticking clocks,

Frozen time speeds along

Leaving her breathless and faint.

Fear carries her legs,

Bending and turning

In a lonely waltz.

She drags her feet

Continuously in circles

Around the dusty windows.

Her arms turn to wood,

Vines choke her breasts.

Splintered fingers caress

Her outstretched neck.

Twisted and dry,

She cringes along

This path of misery.

She is a servant to hate

And is eternally bound.