So This is Living

living in death“So this is living in Death” the dark haired beauty whispers to the gentle winter breeze, as she kneels onto the snow covered ground by the frozen river and begins to cry.  Her wings the color of raven’s tears, wings she didn’t have yesterday, slowly envelope her as she covers her face with her hands.  The tears she sheds are the color of blood and crystalize before hitting the ground, leaving rubies in the snow.

“So this is living in War” the copper tressed woman rages at the winter gale, as she too kneels on the snowy ground, stabbing her sword into the frozen earth and begins to cry.  Her wings the color of horse blood, wings she didn’t have yesterday, flare out as her tears of rage crystalize before hitting the ground, covering the snow with flowers that resemble the faces of the children she has slaughtered.

“So this is living in Shame” the pale haired woman cries to the harsh winter winds as she too drops to the snowy ground, and cannot cry.  Her wings the color of a scalpel, wings she didn’t have yesterday, simply droop where they are, and one lone tear escapes her forlorn face.  It crystalizes before hitting the ground, leaving a frozen half formed fetus in the snow.

“So this is dying in Hope” the hairless woman prays to the haunting winter air, and she too kneels onto the frozen snow.  Her wings are gone, the wings she had yesterday before the last of the radiation treatments, and she fears to cry lest the cancer spreads and kills the hibernating ground.

“So this is dying in Life”  the old grey haired woman rasps to the winter stillness as she kneels in the frozen snow, dropping her diary.  Her wings are translucent, wings she didn’t have until yesterday, or at least she doesn’t remember them until now, and she hangs her head to cry and has no memory of why.  Her tears crystalize before hitting the ground and she remembers not where they came nor what they are.

“So this Is” the shimmering woman breathes into the winter landscape.  Her wings the colors of a thousand flying things, wings she has had long before the dawn of man, open up so wide as to engulf nations, and all of the penitents gather under those angelic wings seeking refuge, as fleeting as it may be, if only to forget for a moment.

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