Wingless Angel

The clouds intimidate the blood that boils within her
The blood that boils from stolen gifts, missing.

From the highest rock she surrenders her voice
Parts her trembling lips like she has for lies.

The echo feeds the air for it’s hungry silence
Screaming, leaning off the highest rock, she waits.

The warmth of his body, she can sink her teeth into
The windows to her demons close, to smile again.

Death awaits her, yet she can taste life behind her like a thousand kisses
To pull her from the ledge is like medication for his soul, his sickness.

Her screams still echo in his ears, deafening his immortality
Escaping from her mortal mind into the forrest of fabrication.

He is gone. Gone again. The rocks, the rocks.
The ocean beneath her, what ’tis it’s destiny?

Scarred arms violently play mercy with the ledge.
A brawl with nature in a bloody tournament of hollow hearts.

Distinct stones become distinct because of the blood that consumes them.
She drains herself white until he shall come again, if possible.

This sea of selfishness masquerades as a sea of sacrifice
However, tinting the ocean below her with the color of passion.

It is getting cold inside of her already icy skin, no cries
The warmth of his body, she can sink her teeth into, no lies.

His hands brings the same gift as a bandaid, yet again, here
Behind her, he cries softly in a muffled terror that taunts.

The bleeding never seizes, but her pain becomes her pleasure
The warmth he can bring seems to fade from her frozen facade.

His tears that created the ocean is tainted by her pleasure now
The gems that built the tower are only bloody rocks on a ledge.

He turns, he runs, wiping blood from his thumbs
A warm heart transforms into an icebox from the unstoppable.

Here she lay, all alone without bandaid or warmth
In a panic, a frenzy, if you will, she searches for a source.

The rocks are jaded, the ocean is her blood bath
If you looked at it from her angle, ’tis quite romantic.

How to bring back his gifts is the question to a beautiful answer
The ledge and the ocean and the body that has yet to lie below it.

There she goes, wind beating her chest, windows to her demons closed
Here he comes, standing at the ledge ready with gifts of patience.

Watching her fall, impossible for the gift of giving now
She hits rock bottom. This is the only gift the wingless Angel has not.

“Goodbye, Violetta.”

Violetta Alexis-Copyright 2010