A puppet, broken and cast aside,
An angel, picking up the pieces,
To rhythm of the pulsing tide,
Taking the beat and using it before it ceases,
The puppet, silent and forlorn,
The angel, watching in silence,
Her eyes as blue a winter's morn,
The puppet fears the end in violence.
The angel takes his hand and smiles,
The puppet takes it with doubt.
They smile slightly, and it streches for miles,
And care begins to sprout.
The puppet is no more,
Instead her valiant knight,
She is at his side, calm as the seashore,
And yet for him she draws a blade and begins to fight.
Can the darkness fall away, leaving no fears?
Or will the angel bear him into the sky,
Her blood flowing like her tears,
Because only for her knight she will cry.
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Aya-Death Angel
Mostly poetry, no real deep thought. Just a place for momentary bursts of creativity.
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