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The storm
Folder:
Madness A dark house stands upon a hill,
no signs of life, no lights,
winding road to an abandoned dead end.
A figure stands in shadows,
staring out at the raging storm,
still, silent, she watches.
Lightning cracks through the dark sky,
illuminating the empty room,
pale features of a ghostly face.
There are no lights, broken pictures hang on the wall,
wind howling through the night,
the house groans and shakes.
Upstairs are rooms, locks on each door,
inside them lies a demon, a monster, a memory.
Winding staircase gleams as the lightning colors the walls,
the storm rages on, ignored from this small shelter.
The only occupant, a woman, gazing out into the night,
arms crossed over a strong chest, no expression,
she's almost serene, at peace in the darkness.
Drip.
Drip.
The steady sound is barely audible over the thunder and rain,
blood dripping slowly from a pair of mutilated wings.
Their color neither white, black or gray,
the sheer amount of wounds staining them dark red,
unnoticed by their owner, the drops falling into a puddle around her feet.
A shift in the air is all that announces the newcomer,
energy dances along her skin, the rustle of clothing as the intruder approaches,
she doesn't turn, instead continues to watch the pouring rain.
A gentle touch of a feather, the dripping stops,
the wounds heal, joining the many upon the stranger's own.
Her wounds for his, a noble gesture,
he raises his dark gaze to meet hers in the reflection of the glass,
a myriad of emotion flashes as brown eyes bore into pale blue.
No movement, no sound, she's a staue.
No remorse, no guilt,
there is nothing but shadows,
she betrays none of her thoughts with a single nod.
Acknowledging her with a tilt of his head,
a soft smile, a deep pain replaced by duty.
Crack!
Her visitor has gone, as sudden as he appeared,
leaving her alone to her solitude,
no longer bleeding, because that isn't his way,
to leave someone wounded when he can take it inside where it stays.
Storm rages on, as the minutes tick by,
soon it will be dawn, the sun will rise into the sky.
Forgotten on a hill, the old house sits,
its woman, an angel?
Waiting out the weather,
waiting out the dawn, the last traces of a long night.
