His Black Wings

Her golden hair sprawled on the pillow,
Her petite pale fingers clutching the cotton
To her tear-stained face.

Her face was red
And her thoughts vague
From the fever.
She gave a whimpering sob,
Her lips gray and cracked,
Her eyes squeezed shut.

A shadow fell over her squirming form,
His body thin,
A glowing white pallor he was,
With topaz eyes that glistened
With tears
Every visit he took.

He brushed a lock of auburn hair behind his ear,
And wiped his chiseled face (carved by an artist).
She cracked open a wet, weary eye and uttered
Another sob.

He slipped an ivory hand into her gray fingers,
And sighed "Let's go now."
He gently tugged her hand,
And her tired spirit rose.

She took a sad, longing glance at her motionless body
In its swaddled blankets,
And asked,
"Why now?"

He smiled warmly at her,
A question, he, too, had wondered for himself.
"It's time."

He spread his black wings,
beautiful, satin creations
the color of night.

He clutched her translucent hand
And they both flew out,
Into the sparkling city's darkness.