Skipping on deaths stones laid in a cluttered mess. 

Knocking on my raven of deaths door. 

Pouncing on every word as if searching. 

Here she laid smiling in her own pool of blood. 

Blood that grined and her becoming the embodiment of sin. 

She kissed death with her frosted poison painted lips. 

She longed to fly on the backs of angels. 

Instead her eyes were pecked and clawed on by crows. 

Poor little oak tree sitting in a lonely pasture. 

Until a ax man came and knocked it to the ground. 

Poor poor little ax man, for he was left with blood on his hands. 

That little girl with a ravens eye or was it a wolfs eye? 

Dark amber like a midnight summers chocolate. 

As that little girls wings turned black and her eyes full of hate. 

But.. What if there was no ax man to save her? What if little red.. Was really the metaphor of us? Yeah.. She flew..  Yes she flew..  She flew to her death..

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