There is a walled garden, long overgrown; the stone fountains are silent, and green vines travel the course where water once ran. The flowers of the garden are wild, bright, and ferocious.
It is an untouched garden, a beautiful, forgotten, place, and it is here that lost angels spend their time.
Including the wicked angel, who visits the garden alone; she is a lost angel, but it was by choice.
She comes to pluck dark purple tulips and orange carnations, laughing dandelions and thorn-pricked roses, taking them all and weaving them into her hair.
Wherever she goes, she wants to leave flower petals in her wake.
Her wickedness is not born of cruelty; she spreads wickedness as others share love. She invites decadence. She inspires devilry. She dances naked outside windows, in the snow, and leaves teardrops in the drinks of the lonely. She joins silhouettes of lovers and the shadow puppets their lovemaking leaves upon the wall.
She kisses the wrist of a woman dreaming of yesterday’s regrets, runs fingers down the spine of a young man in an elevator until his shivers make him gasp.
She reminds them all what it means to be alive.
She is a lost angel, but she wants it that way. To be found, meant being caged, and then she could be wicked no more.
i adore this.
elise
Little petals, falling away… little feathers, falling away. Is the prick of the thorn the reminder of what once was or what we wish we had had?
Thank you old friend.
Your dark angels gather in a brilliant ring of smiles and appreciation, then with a soft kiss on the breeze, they crawl, fly or dance away.
Beautiful, my dear.
You are right about that; being caged does result in loss of wickedness.
*off to craft keys, to open cages and free the bound*
I am left breathless.