You are most angelic when your touch is far away from me.

You have scarred me
with your wings
and left me

for the Devil.

Tell me, Icarus,
am I the sinner
you dreamt of meeting
in heaven,

when you threw
yourself
to the sun?

Angel's wear
sinner's blood
in veins
that are
not
theirs.

There is aestheticism
buried in the depths
of this earth,
in the sun's heat
and in the moons rain.
However hidden it may
attempt to be,
I will always
pursue
it.

I throw ****** feathers aside,
looking for the fallen angel,
whose wings have vanished
into thin air.

I don't think
she remembered what it was like
to be holy,
but God,
did she emminate it.

Her blood held crucifixes,
gold chains,
still chains.

Eyes held heaven in their capture,
and she holds me
in captivity.

I found her above dark grounds,
but with gold dust of an old halo.

Am I blessed with her,
or cursed to admire from afar
for eternity.

Her pure soul,
not to be tainted with
my mortal hands.

To be simply in her presence,
is
heaven
enough.

He called her Holy,
untouched,
but in the way that
a wolf would call out
its prey's name.

He howled it;
before
devouring
her.