She had been innocent once,
a little girl playing with feathers on the floor of the devil's lair.
But she started to age.
And as she aged she saw that the feathers were bloody
and the floor was brimstone.
She smelled the sulfur
and felt the air of death cling to her body.
As she grew,
she saw less and less of the floor
and more and more of the walls,
dark with the ornaments of battle.
Of wings.
When the devil came again,
she saw how he really looked
and not the taloned feet of his arrival.
This little girl,
she wasn't so little anymore.
She wasn't so innocent anymore.
And she loved it.
Because one day,
she had her own lair.
With her own sulfur and death.
With blood on her hands
and feathers on the floor
With wings lining the walls.
and a little girl,
so innocent and sweet,
playing with the feathers that fell.
YOU ARE READING
When The Blood Ran Black
PoetryWhen my demon decided it wanted out, there was nothing I could do to stop it. I could only watch as bloodied claws pierced my skin and shadows leaked through my eyes in black teardrops. It wanted out, and I was content to let it roam. >>>&g...
