Free Write

A demon in a glow of light, a star among the embers of Hell. Here she is, your angel, your savior, your slut, your whore. When cast in that light, she's not a saint anymore. A rose, a rose, a box of chocolates! Romance is in the air! And then it's not, torn asunder, a heart wrenching cry of despair. The long lost art of conversation does charisma make. But when the Soc is for all the losers, do you even dare? I want not to be a false idol for faux worshippers at a fallen altar, but a Goddess, churchless in midair. Did I stop making sense? Yes, my faults progress, digress, wander back to demons. But a demon is a fallen angel, so are my faults broken virtues? Philosophically speaking, I suppose they are. Candles lick at the underside of my hair. The flames will not be doused, the thoughts not be repressed - did I err in unleashing my more human side, my soul, my heart's dank lair? Ah, yes, 'twas a mistake, a folly on my part. For what is contained inside will not be broken apart. It floods this page, my fragile living, so easily ripped and torn. (And from this folly, graveside flowers, they bloom and are born.)