An angel sits in waiting;
golden silk hair floats on the breeze,
like the light, linen cloth draped over her
catches the wind beneath.
She rests on a cream-coloured pillar,
hand upon hand, fragile on her leg.
Boundless Utopia surrounds her,
warm light bounces from her pale skin,
touches her full lips,
guides the succulent green grasses sway.
She cries.
She’s in love with the Devil.

He introduces her to sin,
seducing and incriminating –
Oh, to thrust away such innocence!

She slipped from heaven,
and fell into his heated hands,
the face of a god,
the heart of a corpse.

Beginning so slowly,
she obeys him blindly as Pandora,
a rosy finger mesmerised by the thorn.
He strokes her hand,
and soon her face caressed
with experienced falsity.
She is virgin,
in sex and love,
and he preys on corruption and filth
– her sweet naivety sets her apart,
an easy target to trap and snare.

She acts in secret;
his wild indiscretions worming their way into her,
his rough lips poison hers so addictively.
He boasts his accomplishments;
bets and wages, damning cruelty
slithering and smothering
round her neck,
unnoticeably drowning her in
humiliating deceit.

Nature compels him to
infliction of pain and bursting aortas,
to destruction of hopes,
and suicidal impulses. But,
in the chasm of her fractured soul,
her bliss snatched away,
the luminosity inside her rises again,
above and beyond
broken mortal pains, and
regains its place amongst the stars.

The star without a soul, it’s called;
and, in the depth of the night,
shines just a little less
Than any other untouched light.