heavenly sin
feathers. soft. delicate.
the plumes melt beneath satan’s touch, scorching, as he watches them burn to dust, crumbling into a fine powder, the angel blood getting absorbed into the terra beneath him.
fallen. broken.
he watches as the angels choke on their halos, a sadistic satisfaction overtaking his dead psyche. rivers of silver softening into a thick liquid, oozing out from the angel’s now broken wings. legs wide open, relaxing into the warmth of his armchair, a gold wine glass adorning his manly hands, a bored look gracing his light blue irises, as a barbarous smirk frames his dangerously gorgeous face.
heavenly creatures in the fallen angel’s lair. a beautiful contradiction encased by the everlasting fire and brimstone walls of the crimson chamber. scattered white feathers on the porcelain floor, no longer the children of god, the angels weep, their cries sounding like an enticing symphony to Lucifer, as he throws his head; mess of black curls, back in pleasure.
scarlet butterflies streaked with shades of clementine flutter around the devil’s habitat. black roses blossomed in the fertile grounds, a deep blue butterfly residing on his palm, crimson roses intertwined in the black mess of curls, a certain melancholy brimming in his eyes, as he bathes in the moonlight, celestial bodies sprinkled across the expanse of the midnight sky.
his heart yearning for amore, for the feeling of ecstasy to take over his persona, to scramble away from the despondency living in his spirit.
