Murder of an Angel

The blade slid across her skin, a weeping crimson
mouth yawning against ivory petals. Falling to the floor,
the soft parting of flesh from bone, heart from soul and
body from mind. Into the moon drenched night screams
dissipate, silence never seemed so beautifully broken by
that voice.

Parted, self from self, divided by the voices inside.
The voices that mutilate and destroy, breaking the
halves into quarters and the quarters into tiny masked
moments of time. Masquerading in these satin sheets,
the tiniest pearls building like the tears to the flower.
Bathe in the blood, black butterflies flitter by,
collapsing to the ground, sacrificed in the devil's
name.

Skulls trip down the stairs, blanched by the sun's
cruelest kiss. The moon, a pale ivory disc, dances along
her glittering path. Sensual wisps of perfume fade into
the emptiness, that weeping mouth fading against the
essence of time. Her elbows jut out in awkward
positions, steel scrapes bone, the subtle depth
of the soul, shattered by man's tools.

Crossed swords, starlit voids and death shoulders the
burden. Evisceration lies in the wake, the waves
receding from the beaten shores. Lucifer hangs upon
a jasper crucifix, a fiery crown adorns his wicked
head. His followers stand about him, string ebony
pearls along the path of devastation. Crucified in sins
to shameful to name, wallowing in the mire that is.

Stand broken in Hell, the scars of forgotten skin and
soulless eyes stark against the landscape.