The gentle air, what lift thy heavy wing,
gave way to silver blade my hand once 'quipped.
Torn from limb thy feather fell,
stained upon my blood-red hand.
What flight I failed to see in thou,
before my rage which accursed me now.
See wound upon thy softest skin,
does burn my heart and soul.
Burdened forevermore;
Devils' hand may take my air,
nought ceased in lack reason.
I failed thee once, O angel fair.
Removed from heart, and pierced by Lilith's blade.
It be that price I pay and the suffering I bear.
About the Creator
Dan
25 years old, Glasgow/UK & Kvam/Norway
I write stories and poetry that dawn upon me.
It tends to be a bit sporadic - but I do try and upload when I can, usually comes in large chunks. Anyway, enjoy if you manage to understand it all
- Dan
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.