True Life and Death

Perched upon the smallest tree on the alcove, dark gray feathered-wings around her body; the night caressing her white body as smoothly as the soft texture of the digits on her back. Gazing upon the lamentation of the boy, with a stare piercing his thoughts, looking deeply into the affection that brought them together. The affection of another which could not be... so often has this love for the utterances of the soul brought this ethereal being into the plains of humans.

Perched upon the smallest tree on a still branch that -with her- listens to the cries and gentle sobs of the disillusioned soul whom below with tearful eyes embraces the sentiment which brought the blade to such enamored hands. The flow of feelings from deep within, as well as the cold and wet hands holding destiny so dear are a sight craved and informally agreed upon to be the last will of anyone who upon it dares to find themselves.

Perched upon the smallest tree where destiny beckons reason to leave this place of solace and unjust darkness, where a gloom-filled heart tares away reason and lays a path upon the malice of our thoughts. Unbearable are the thoughts of loss which bring uncomfortable firmness to the hand which dearly craves for a finality most fear.

Perched upon the smallest tree now culling to the choices that to the eternal rest deem that quality of an individual's choices into the finality of all things. She feels the soft breeze dissipate as it comes close to her, as it dies before ever achieving a soft touch upon her silk-like skin; virgin to the touch of any living being, and foreign to the love she queries from below...

Perched upon the smallest tree without thought of conscience, or sentimental notion, neither with veracity nor dedication, and in most frailty without love. To steal the essence which upon her shadowy figure bestows life, yet below such terminal disdain bringing upon the most rational voice those who live posses. For it is now in darkness' veiled content that a wish for damnation is real and ultimate in its finality.

Perched upon the smallest tree like withering fruit in chaos living and now seeking to embark in one more charade...

Perched upon the smallest tree wings as dark as the night which bore them flight stretch out in a single motion, revealing the provocative vixen whom must now in the night's cold embrace, look upon the soul of this being one last time. To tear away the soul is her purpose, to ingest fear and steal the fruit which will further her existence... the love, the real love that now in blood leaves to never return. "Die, die now my child. To me yield that which you could not attain. Attain thence the merit of your upheaval."

Standing upon the very air which her wings drag, with dark wings outstretched in a sign of glorious conquer, just above the now still figure, she devours the love which entangled these two in affairs of true life and death.