The clock slowed down. A fiery red and orange sky like Vermont leaves, a rainbow of warmth. Shards of the sky, fire, littered the ground.
Burning white feathers drifted down, edges black, small embers crawling their way down each small rod, slowly curling in on themselves.
Fallen angels sit hunched, extend their arms to the heavens, lay on their backs, and weep for their broken, mangled, and cut-off wings. The sounds of sorrow are muffled, as if through a glass bowl.
Up above, against the brilliant white, dark shadows soar and scream. They sing in anguish, for their white, pure wings slowly turn black and wretched. Their fingers sharpen and gleam. Their feet stretch and contort into massive talons and curl. Their golden hair turns black, sickly, dead, and falls, crumbling to dust before it hits the ground.
Dozens of angels turning to demons, and hundreds more fallen, injured, or dead. Haloes turn to horns, and feathers to leather. A fate worse than death, to become the enemy. Your own nightmare. The embodiment of dread, sorrow, hopelessness.
The angels have fallen.
YOU ARE READING
Twisted Dreams
PoetryA collection of short stories, poems, and half-written ramblings. ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 dream \ ˈdrēm \ 1 : a series of thoughts, visions, or feelings that happen during sleep ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 night·m...
