Alone in the forest, not a bird or a bee, <br />Crowded by weeds and the overhang tree, <br />She sits on a swing made of old wood and vines, <br />Swinging backwards and forwards, she never smiles. <br />Her once white featherd wings have grown old and worn, <br />Her once pretty dress is now dirty and torn. <br />Her legs are bloody from the thorns as she swings, <br />Her feathers are shedding from her darkened wings. <br />Her eyes are black and so is her soul, <br />surrounded by sadness, she cannot let go. <br />She's constantly swinging, she never sleeps, <br />She's constantly bleeding, she never weeps, <br />She haunts the forest, her mind unstable, <br />With her expression of hate, she is the Dark Angel.<br /><br />lindsey ashton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dark-angel-13/
