Drink of Angels

Floating downward from above, the ivory feather of an angel's wing. Making love with the emerald earth, a white rose starts to sing. Virgin petals slowly born, warm velvet against cold glass. Slowly unfolding wings of her own, she flies free at last. Drops of ruby rain fall, tainting the pure with lies. Blood seeps through the purest petals, they turn to ice; shatter; die. She slowly drowns in her crimson sea, after she whispers a brandy tear. The feather turns coarse shades of jet, drinking from her fear. Long since forgotten she hides away, a black and gray memory. If you listen closely you can hear her whispers, her prayers; her cries; her pleas.