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Bewitched Immortal Love
The Labrynth
Frozen Heart
Confusion
Life
You Want
I Remember
Fear
Inside
I Need You Now
Dont Cry
Love Myths And Mysteries
Demon
Just Tired
Angel Of Pain
Drops Of Blood
Untitled
Edgar Allen Poe
Emily Dickinson
Misc poems
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| Angel Of Pain |
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| Down in the depths of hell In that sweltering slaughter pit Where the souls are racked with tourment The charnel dwelling of the immortally damned. Just beyond the looming onyx gates of hell A backdrop of vivid flames, Roaring to the very ceiling Slowly burn and blister the tourtured souls Who then scream, thrash, and groan in agony. With no equal and no end. And then a tall, slender female is seen Walking out of the raging flames Through clouds of billowing smoke Smellng of sulfur, blood...and dried fantasies. With a deft hand she tightens the laces on her leath erbodice Exhausted, beaten, broken souls Mercilessly whipped, lay chained to the wall And yet cry out feebly to her Each hoping that within her black heart Lies maybe a thread of humanity. Alas, they are sadly mistaken Sympathy for them.. She has not... In response to their please, she merely laughs, Cracking her whip upon their backs Slicing cleaningly...exposing bone to view. The flames reflect beautifully off her pale skin, Giving it an almost ruddy appearence of vitality. Her delicately oval shamed face is framed By long silky black hair Pleasing to the eye...Soft and luxurious to the touch With it's silver highlights, glistening almost like stolen rays of moonlight. Yet a scent of blood lingers in it. She pauses... And takes a moment to gaze over the weltering souls She smiles, having decided that occasions such as this, Make her estatic to be known as, And carry the name of... "The Angel Of Pain". Her gaze, having the ability to cause a single soul to tremble And quake in absolute terror or bring a smile to the lips of the dreaming sadist, Awashed in fantasy... A lithe and sensual being is she In a possession of a fiery passion Somewhat pensive, she flexes her Black feathered wings Flaps them a couple times Stretches them out to a span of six feet, Then folds them neatly behind her. Yet the sweet sound of rustling feathers Is no match for the howling in abject agony. She cracks the qhip and scores a soul along the neck, Slitting wide open the carotid artery Thus resulting crimson spraying violently from the deadly wound. Draping..Drenching Her leather clothing in blood She pauses momentarily... A truly breath taking creature. Crimson blood slowly dripping down her sensuous form... Surrounded by leaping flames... And willing souls. Whip still in hand. |
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