Razor Winged Angel (Part II)

The mortal temptation of which I speak, who shall be named Arlene, is one such person who thrust’s these jests to others, to guard her spirit and cleanse her mind.
Tears run from her eyes and began to chip away the carefully laden mascara.

“For though all the world is a stage, the true actors are those who do as they feel, and not act as they’re told…”

The mortal temptation of which I speak, who shall be named Arlene, is one such person who thrust’s these jests to others, to guard her spirit and cleanse her mind.
Tears run from her eyes and began to chip away the carefully laden mascara. To shade her windows and armor her soul from the intrusion of others. Her lips as dark as ink, to soak her words with darkness as she curses the world in which she burns.
The gems laden through her skin gleaming starkly in the dim lamplight….”unpaid…” she wispers in the dull glow.
The chills begin to rivet her extruding spine as her crimson nails clack against the body of her steely vengance. The shimmer of the barrel revealing hidden intentions to the “intruder”. The words “terror” etched into her forearm, runs her stinging blood down the grip.
The intruder now, slinks against the wall in an irreverent show of hatred. For he now loathes that which he has done, for it has created his ultimate undoing. Compounded by her new found autonomy and anger.
“Daddy? Am I not sexy?…” She utters, scraping her free hand up her torn fishnets in a compulsive show of sarcasm. Her cold weapon beginning to shake in blood lustful anticipation.
The clouded moonlight now all but silhouettes the intruder into a target, bearing a gaze of ice.
Behind his desk, no barrier now stands to save him from the shadows of his evil. His office, his chambers in which …
“..mommy never comes in here sweetie…it’s okay..”
is now no longer a sanctuary for corruption.
His own vault of dissacrement in which images were etched forever into the minds of young angels, and filthy hands rended the flesh of the seraphims. Darkening their blond hair to coal, and turning their rosy cheeks to be overcast by darkened pits for eyes. Cheerful outfits replaced by those of a “Forgotten”…
For it was here, amongst the books and the papers that another angel was born, a different breed.

From the husk of the pure, came the blades of the corrupted.

“As his hands did grope, her flesh did burn..
As his tongue did scrape, her blood did boil..
and as his soul did intrude, her resolve did harden..:
Arlene rose her fisted fire head ward and spoke “for you daddy, from daddy’s little angel!!”
No sooner did the words strike his ears than did her rounds raze his body. One by another, the bullets split bones and break veins, and pushed the life from his body, bit by bit.
A limitless grin crossed her lips as she watched the light….slowly dim in his eyes, and the carpet where…

“Daddy thinks you look so sexy on sweetie”

…his lifeblood began to soak. Staggering once to the edge of his desk, only a mere strike from her leather boot, did he fall one final time. His plagued spirit shattered, and his emptied shell fell forth.
As his essence continued to pour forth, her wings lowered from the long risen stance. The burning in her soul reduced, and her tears finally at an end. Her bloodied talons dropped the weapon aside his head, and there…with the same Polaroid that..

“I just want one more picture sweetie..”

…she had come to know the flash with vulnerability. She took one final picture, of herself…for the first time ever…smiling.

From the depths of her house, she stepped forth from the great oaken doors. The scars are now healing, the make-up has finally stopped running….for what now does this angel live for?
She turns her eyes skyward and whispers only “finally alone…”

By Azurael

Enjoys: Razor blades Cat 'o' Nines Roses Poetry Dispair Self-Destruction


  1. how funny the talk of old tongues… let them lie for the old shall die… as vexed as i was of the complulsory language (it made me think of those of little wit) it made me laugh a little that people like yourself still exist. the story so vibrant to the writers eyes… it is not so vibrant in the eyes of others. i am not critiquing… just self-reflecting… that is all.

  2. I’m actually very fond of those who can write as eloquently as Azurael. Yaro, it may be that it is a little hard to understand if you have not read the first part of this… go back and read the first one. It’s in the archives. Azurael, you already know what I think of the writing, but as I told you earlier today, there’s something missing that I can’t put my finger on.

  3. perhaps it brings back odd memories in me… i used to write with such words but i realized some of my terminology alienates a certain audience from my writing. i understood it, it just reminds of certain situations i do not want to rememeber. Perhaps it is good that the old language should not die but the writing hits me in a spot i do not want touched.

  4. I specialize in touching those spots. I can only pray my writing invokes an emotion.

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