Alone in the forest, not a bird or a bee,
Crowded by weeds and the overhang tree,
She sits on a swing made of old wood and vines,
Swinging backwards and forwards, she never smiles.
Her once white featherd wings have grown old and worn,
Her once pretty dress is now dirty and torn.
Her legs are bloody from the thorns as she swings,
Her feathers are shedding from her darkened wings.
Her eyes are black and so is her soul,
surrounded by sadness, she cannot let go.
She's constantly swinging, she never sleeps,
She's constantly bleeding, she never weeps,
She haunts the forest, her mind unstable,
With her expression of hate, she is the Dark Angel.
Good flow to this one, a tale of a fallen angel, well done. 10 Lynda xx
Absoulotly beautful not what I expected at all great write :)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This was absolutly beautiful great job!