her crimson wings
don't hold her now
torn asunder in the wind
sensual red satin sheets
on frames of rusted steel
droplets of blood
on ivory cheeks
staining muslin cloth
tears of pain
run freely down
the valleys of her face
streaming down
gathering pace
and pooling at her feet
velvet heels
worn in vain
ruined in the rain
of life-blood
pure and true
cutting knives that rip the
crimson wings behind
she cannot fly
she cannot try
if only she had
those crimson wings
without them
she will fall

Dedicated to the person that gave me the courage to post this. You know
who you are. Thank you.

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Glacian, in the year 341 AF.