Leaves..

Falling and swirling,
Much like snowflakes during the winter.
Slowly turning, flipping,
While working themselves to the ground.

Green, red, orange, yellow, and brown.
Always happening from one time, to another.
Nothing unhead of, or unseen,
The falling leaves.

Happens more than once a year,
If you catch my drift.
During autumn, mainly,
But other seasons too.

Innicents captured amoung the falling leaves,
So simple.
The leaves will always fall, next time,
Won't you join me?

Your path.

There are many paths to take.
The popular,
The 'important,'
Or, The outcast.

Yes, there are many more paths to take,
But I am not about to label them all,
Simply pointing a few out in which to enable you to think.

Now, with the labeled paths,
Do you really like the idea?

To walk a path that has already been taken?

To follow the footsteps of another,
To follow the mistakes.

Is that really the destination you have set for yourself?
No new experiences.
No new lessons,
Simply another's?

But, you shouldn't do that,
You should tread onward through a path formed by you,
Your own footsteps,
Your own experiences.

Who knows, someone might follow you.

Here's something else I have typed up, I wrote it for a friend..

The blade rests with the hilt against his pale wrist, right under that of a scar of past trying. It was healed by that of fire. He closes his eyes, the memory as clear as before.
“ Winged brother! Why does he do this? Why does S’kye cause himself pain? “ A man says, he holds the features of a girl, yet has wings gifted to him resembling that of a phoenix’s. The man holds to his wrist, which had been recently slit. The man heals it with that of his element, fire.
“ To rid myself momentarily of that the pain in which I cannot stand, that is why I do this, Ignious. “ Replies the man being healed, S’kye. He is tall, well, taller than Ignious, and hold a pale complexion, also, a little too perfect features. Yes, he has two full sized angelic wings. Each individual feather is snow white, tipped with an icy blue. He has long, silver colored hair that falls to his mid-back, and lastly eyes that reflect ice, no feeling other than the frozen heart. One in which dulled, seeming to freeze in place, in place of pains.
“ S’kye must not do that. S’kye will get himself hurt. Ignious has had pains, yes. He has forgiven his father, why doesn’t S’kye forgive them? “ Asks the innocent younger man.
“ It’s different… They killed my wife and children… I cannot forgive them… “
“ But why can’t S’kye forgive them? S’kye has died once, why does he try to again? “
“ I can’t stand to live knowing they are dead… I was the only one to survive, them I slit my own wrist, only to end up coming back again. “
Ignious releases that of his wrist, is being healed. His arms falls to his side as he closes his eyes, a line of somewhat salted water running along his jawline.
“ Why is S’kye crying? “
“ You are so strong… I am not… They are gone… I can’t forgive those who killed him… But I don’t know who did it either… “
“ S’kye knows not the killer of his family? “
“ ..No… “
“ That is who S’kye searches for… “
His eyes remain cloased as the trail of water along his jawline becomes cold and he brushes it away with the back of his hand. “ I must leave… “
“ Where is S’kye going? “
“ ..Away… Away, not to return for a long time. “
He steps back, sheathing the bloodied blade and walks slowly away, hearing Ignious standing in silence.
The memory was clear, as clear as ever. Now it was time for him to return. He sheathes the blade and starts forward, returning.

My mother's birthday gift..

See, I haven't been able to think of anything to type up, so I will paste a short part of a story that I had given my mother for her birthday. Hope you enjoy.

The cold steel blade rests balanced against the pale skin of his wrist. He is rather tall, and by every detail, you could tell he was among those of which who were called fallen angels. To prove this point, his natural facial features are too perfect; as well the two full fledge white angelic wings upon his back, his shoulder blades to be exact. The tip of every white feather holds a light hue of blue, the faintest hue, yet still one is there to mark him of the category of angelic ones he is. He has long, silvery hair in reaches to his mid-back. No, not the silver that comes from age, yet the silvery color in which it had been since his very birth. His light colored eyes, in which reflect that of ice so well, are of a blue hint among a slight clear. But, among the ice-like quality, it seems to have been made over time, recently, as if his eyes weren’t always so… Icy.
“Why do you cause yourself pain?” The voice of Ignious passes through his thoughts as he closes his ice-like eyes. The clothing he is wearing is a light tan, very light tan, cloak, as well breeches. His tunic remains a white color, the only thing somewhat dark in which he has upon him is the sheath in which naturally holds to his blade. Even though it was the darkest, it was still a light hint to it.
‘When it is my time, do not cry me a river, or let the blood fall to the ground in puddles of the dark, dark crimson, form upon the crisp, green, grass.
‘Instead, be strong, live in happiness, care for the younger ones in which need you more than I.
‘You may not be able to see, or hear what calls to you, what leads you forward. But always have your voice, use it to your desire, for your opinion may be the difference of things.
‘Change your thoughts from my meaningless form, and keep them to what need you, what calls to you for that in which they seek, help.’
He had taken heed of her words… Until now, until what happened. He wasn’t meaning to keep the anger and let it dwell and harden into what seems almost like that of ice. He never would seek for anything other than answers, yet for that, he had been marked as the Angel of Death. Not once had he smiled since his return to this world.
“To rid myself of other pains in which dwell deep into my thoughts… To momentarily spare myself the bareings of that in which holds to me with intensity…” He had answered the man, Ignious, with an ice-like tone that kept to him well enough, yet seemed only toneless when speech was with the man Ignious, for he too knew pains such as his. Yet he knew how to deal with them, Ignious had forgiven his father for killing… Something he himself had yet to do.