silent screams

death of a angel

Her wings were heavy, her voice a rasp,
She reached for hope she could not grasp.
So tired of screaming, tired of pain,
Her cries fell silent, time and again.

They mocked her name, they spat, they jeered,
Her heart grew cracked, her soul was seared.
Yet angels of night are angels still,
Bound by sorrow, bent by will.

They say when a bell begins to sing,
An angel is given her sacred wing—
But hers were born from a darker sound,
A death-bell tolling beneath the ground.

Life was cruel, unfair, unkind,
A tortured wail within her mind.
She'd danced between both kiss and hiss,
Heaven's blade and hell's soft bliss.

While others sang to the morning sun,
She swayed with shadows, one by one.
Now it was time for the final fall,
To answer despair's relentless call.

She tumbled deep through endless night,
Chasing a wish that stayed from sight:
That when the next bell chose to sing,
It would grant her a truer wing.