On the balcony above, made of weather-worn stone,
Lays a woman-no girl-in a pool of her own blood.
How sad and romantic is death.

A white rose garden, now dyed red
With dripping blood from the balcony above.
Purity becoming corrupt

As she kneels beside her broken body silently staring,
At her own pale face.
What remains of her reality shatters?

He appeared next the to mourning spirit,
Staring pessimistically at the scene.
So dark is the Angel of Death.

‘Come’ he says
Grasping her shoulders, helping her spirit stand
While blood still drips onto the white roses.

The spirit cried, clear and salty bits of water falling from her eyes,
Flying away from her home of fourteen years
,Grieving.

The Angel of Death kissed her forehead,
Like a grandfather would to his grand-daughter.
To comfort her from the night.

They arrive that their destination,
At the tall gates baring heaven from earth
A line between worlds.

She has never known the this feeling,
Of peace and harmony and tranquility.
A feeling who all should know.

Even though the terror she has left behind still remains,
She learns to adapt and adjust, just like that garden.
Forever stained with the Blood of Life.

---

I started writing this back in June, and I'm stil not likeing the ending. Any suggestions?

Thank you to On My Way Out for pointing out a spelling mistake that I made and for her comments.