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Description
The snowflakes flutter down from the heavens;
     some just clumps of imperfection that scatter softly. . .
peacefully. . .
        others are perfect examples of symmetry, projectiles that slice through the bitter air.

Their beauty is simple,
hardly worthwhile to even take notice of,
       . . . but it's enough to draw a weak face out from the bare prison.
She steps out onto the concrete floor,         the iciness seeping into her exposed feet,
      the feelings that pulse across her skin  s l  o   w    l     y  fade away.

Her palms are outstretched, attempting to catch every bundle of white,
                 each one grazes her fingers for but a moment,
  before causing a fiery sensation to shoot up her stick arms.

Coughing causes her to rush back inside,
                                   leaving the snow friendless and alone.
The cough comes from a diseased man,
who beckons to her to him before beginning to paint over the face of her youth.

Charcoal is smeared across her closed almond eyes,
       lips swollen and dyed a glossy red.
Her already pale face is turned snow white,
                            with dustings of crimson across her sunken cheeks.
        Each of her unruly locks is snipped to make way for her clean-cut look.

The life she possessed has faded, she's no longer real.
Her eyes are glassed over, just a doll impersonation,
    every child-like feature made way for sophistication.

The man tears her tear-stained rags off,
replacing it with a slightly tattered dress.
Her wide eyes question him, trying to unravel the meaning behind his actions.
He hides his intentions as he embeds a shy ribbon into her now silky hair.

    With the very last of his strength he lifts her up,
proud of his little girl . . . . .
a butterfly transformed into something more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.
He knows the last of his breath will stop soon,
  and he needs to set her free.

More coughs overwhelmed him and he returns her d
                               o
                         w
                                    n  to the ground.
They walk out hand and hand into the white.
She rushes out to greet the falling flakes,
for she is almost a child of the snow herself.
They dance and twirl together,
movements so synchronized, yet un-replicateable.

And yet this perfect harmony is broken by the man's wrenching grip. . . .
. . .
. . .
. . . something is of more importance.

Another looming shape is intertwined in the chain-link that captivates them.
He's towering above them.
A giant ensnarled in this cruel fate.
Lifeless eyes that have sopped caring. . . about what is left of his destroyed world.

The father s t  u   m    b  l   e s  over, exchanging soft, fragile words.
The howl of the wind eats them up, sending chills across the landscape.
The oversized man lumbers to the girl and holds her in his arms, delicately.
He sees the doll that she's becomes and doesn't want to break her.

In his arms she can see everything.
The blotches of grey that paint over the bloody sky,
And the fires that have just settled on the horizon.
The men in green that have started their patrol,
each armed with rods that shoot death.
. . They don't even feel the cold or even the pain that should constrict them. .

Suddenly she is
l
o
w
e
r
e
d
held so close to the earth that she could feel the bitterness rise through the cracks.

                                                              . . . .

   And then she slips away,
                          without a trace
The hand pushes her through the air, gaining speed,
                  quicker
             q u  i   c    k     e       r
                                                               . . . .
And then it all s...t....o....p....s
The pressure of his hands fade a
                w
          a
            y
           Even the snowflakes dangle in the frosty air,
Their flight coming to a sudden halt.

Both the men's prayers are cast upon her back as she is lifted into the air.
               She rises slowly. . . .
gently. . . .
Like a bird who has been pushed out of the nest and raises its wings to fly.

Her eyes are opened by the breeze,
lips forced apart so that the crisp air can enter.
Wisps of hair ripple out,
caught in the faint starlight that showers the blackened sky.

She's so graceful,
She's flying
Learned to spread her wings and soar
No one can stop her.
Not the soldiers marching below,
Or the war that rages until it's satisfied,
or her father who's eyes water as he sees his girl,
his angel,
slowly drift away. . .

                                                                   . . . . . .

It's a nice dream, she thought.
To keep flying through this moonless sky.
                                                              One where perfect snowflakes fall like confetti.
                                                           The gunshot underfoot can't reach me anymore.
                                It's a nice dream if I could really be free. . .
                                                         But dreams end

                                                                   . . . . . . .

The girls' wings start to crumble and shatter as her flight descends.
Perhaps her newfound wings were strained,
paralyzing them in mid-flight.
                                                       Or a stray bullet burrowed into her glossy feathers,
                                                                                 turning them from white to red.

                                       But it could be something less tragic.
                   She could have seen her father's longing face calling her back,
                                          not ready to set his love free,
                      and her constricted heart kept her bound to the earth.

Whatever the case,
she began to
F
A
L
L

The ground r u  s   h    e     d   up to meet her,
not giving her time to cry out,
to plead
              to escape. . . .

Before she hit the world beyond the fence,
her eyes blocked off her vision. . .
                                             an attempt to protect her from the upcoming horror. . .
                                                                           preserving the memory of her flight,
                                                  as the last good thing.

I could tell you that the girl survives this fall.
That maybe as a last reflex her wings spread out ,
catching wind enough to let her soar free.
                                                        I could tell you a soldier plucked her out of the air,
                                                                                              cradling her in his arms,
     and together they found shelter from the blood and corruption that this war spreads.
Perhaps the warrior would not be so caring,
instead of rescuing her and helping her rebuild her wings,
he would chain them down once more,
returning her to the cold imprisonment,
where the only comfort she could find would be the arms of her dying father.
                                           Maybe the ground wasn't decorated with sticks and stones,
                                                              providing her with enough space to land safely,
                                                                                       until she could take off again.

                                                                 . . . . . . .

                                       This is also painted as a pleasant dream.
               One where little girls who have been caught in the middle of warfare,
                                              can break free and live again.
                                          One where death is not a option,
             since little girls with innocent eyes are immune to pain and suffering.
                                                 Only old people can die,
                                                                   right?

                                                        It's a pleasant dream,
                                                              and it's a lie.

                                                                   . . . . . .

A more suitable ending would be death.
Upon impact her bones would shatter and snap,
letting her life leak out in liquid form.
             If the tragic fall didn't stop her heart,
             it could have been the heartless soldiers marching carelessly that did.
             The ones who didn't stop to hold her in their arms,
             instead crushing her underfoot,
             embedding her into the earth.
                          Even if a man had heart enough to set her on her way once more.
                           she'd be lost.
                          Her home was burned,
                           village destroyed,
                          family pluck off one by one. . .
             She'd wander in the looming forest,
             to be chased by wolves or the beasts from her darkest nightmares,
             stave little by little until her will was gone,
             or freeze during the icy night,
             where her body would turn to a statue of blue.

                                           But I prefer the story left unfinished.
                                      To picture her forever suspended in the air,
                                                wings fully outstretched.

                                                    She is happy there,
                                            with her little bit of freedom,
                           unknowing her future could quickly come to a end.

                                                              Here,
                                                          she is free,
                                    the little snow angel who learned to fly.

Description
The snowflakes flutter down from the heavens;
     some just clumps of imperfection that scatter softly. . .
peacefully. . .
        others are perfect examples of symmetry, projectiles that slice through the bitter air.

Their beauty is simple,
hardly worthwhile to even take notice of,
       . . . but it's enough to draw a weak face out from the bare prison.
She steps out onto the concrete floor,         the iciness seeping into her exposed feet,
      the feelings that pulse across her skin  s l  o   w    l     y  fade away.

Her palms are outstretched, attempting to catch every bundle of white,
                 each one grazes her fingers for but a moment,
  before causing a fiery sensation to shoot up her stick arms.

Coughing causes her to rush back inside,
                                   leaving the snow friendless and alone.
The cough comes from a diseased man,
who beckons to her to him before beginning to paint over the face of her youth.

Charcoal is smeared across her closed almond eyes,
       lips swollen and dyed a glossy red.
Her already pale face is turned snow white,
                            with dustings of crimson across her sunken cheeks.
        Each of her unruly locks is snipped to make way for her clean-cut look.

The life she possessed has faded, she's no longer real.
Her eyes are glassed over, just a doll impersonation,
    every child-like feature made way for sophistication.

The man tears her tear-stained rags off,
replacing it with a slightly tattered dress.
Her wide eyes question him, trying to unravel the meaning behind his actions.
He hides his intentions as he embeds a shy ribbon into her now silky hair.

    With the very last of his strength he lifts her up,
proud of his little girl . . . . .
a butterfly transformed into something more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.
He knows the last of his breath will stop soon,
  and he needs to set her free.

More coughs overwhelmed him and he returns her d
                               o
                         w
                                    n  to the ground.
They walk out hand and hand into the white.
She rushes out to greet the falling flakes,
for she is almost a child of the snow herself.
They dance and twirl together,
movements so synchronized, yet un-replicateable.

And yet this perfect harmony is broken by the man's wrenching grip. . . .
. . .
. . .
. . . something is of more importance.

Another looming shape is intertwined in the chain-link that captivates them.
He's towering above them.
A giant ensnarled in this cruel fate.
Lifeless eyes that have sopped caring. . . about what is left of his destroyed world.

The father s t  u   m    b  l   e s  over, exchanging soft, fragile words.
The howl of the wind eats them up, sending chills across the landscape.
The oversized man lumbers to the girl and holds her in his arms, delicately.
He sees the doll that she's becomes and doesn't want to break her.

In his arms she can see everything.
The blotches of grey that paint over the bloody sky,
And the fires that have just settled on the horizon.
The men in green that have started their patrol,
each armed with rods that shoot death.
. . They don't even feel the cold or even the pain that should constrict them. .

Suddenly she is
l
o
w
e
r
e
d
held so close to the earth that she could feel the bitterness rise through the cracks.

                                                              . . . .

   And then she slips away,
                          without a trace
The hand pushes her through the air, gaining speed,
                  quicker
             q u  i   c    k     e       r
                                                               . . . .
And then it all s...t....o....p....s
The pressure of his hands fade a
                w
          a
            y
           Even the snowflakes dangle in the frosty air,
Their flight coming to a sudden halt.

Both the men's prayers are cast upon her back as she is lifted into the air.
               She rises slowly. . . .
gently. . . .
Like a bird who has been pushed out of the nest and raises its wings to fly.

Her eyes are opened by the breeze,
lips forced apart so that the crisp air can enter.
Wisps of hair ripple out,
caught in the faint starlight that showers the blackened sky.

She's so graceful,
She's flying
Learned to spread her wings and soar
No one can stop her.
Not the soldiers marching below,
Or the war that rages until it's satisfied,
or her father who's eyes water as he sees his girl,
his angel,
slowly drift away. . .

                                                                   . . . . . .

It's a nice dream, she thought.
To keep flying through this moonless sky.
                                                              One where perfect snowflakes fall like confetti.
                                                           The gunshot underfoot can't reach me anymore.
                                It's a nice dream if I could really be free. . .
                                                         But dreams end

                                                                   . . . . . . .

The girls' wings start to crumble and shatter as her flight descends.
Perhaps her newfound wings were strained,
paralyzing them in mid-flight.
                                                       Or a stray bullet burrowed into her glossy feathers,
                                                                                 turning them from white to red.

                                       But it could be something less tragic.
                   She could have seen her father's longing face calling her back,
                                          not ready to set his love free,
                      and her constricted heart kept her bound to the earth.

Whatever the case,
she began to
F
A
L
L

The ground r u  s   h    e     d   up to meet her,
not giving her time to cry out,
to plead
              to escape. . . .

Before she hit the world beyond the fence,
her eyes blocked off her vision. . .
                                             an attempt to protect her from the upcoming horror. . .
                                                                           preserving the memory of her flight,
                                                  as the last good thing.

I could tell you that the girl survives this fall.
That maybe as a last reflex her wings spread out ,
catching wind enough to let her soar free.
                                                        I could tell you a soldier plucked her out of the air,
                                                                                              cradling her in his arms,
     and together they found shelter from the blood and corruption that this war spreads.
Perhaps the warrior would not be so caring,
instead of rescuing her and helping her rebuild her wings,
he would chain them down once more,
returning her to the cold imprisonment,
where the only comfort she could find would be the arms of her dying father.
                                           Maybe the ground wasn't decorated with sticks and stones,
                                                              providing her with enough space to land safely,
                                                                                       until she could take off again.

                                                                 . . . . . . .

                                       This is also painted as a pleasant dream.
               One where little girls who have been caught in the middle of warfare,
                                              can break free and live again.
                                          One where death is not a option,
             since little girls with innocent eyes are immune to pain and suffering.
                                                 Only old people can die,
                                                                   right?

                                                        It's a pleasant dream,
                                                              and it's a lie.

                                                                   . . . . . .

A more suitable ending would be death.
Upon impact her bones would shatter and snap,
letting her life leak out in liquid form.
             If the tragic fall didn't stop her heart,
             it could have been the heartless soldiers marching carelessly that did.
             The ones who didn't stop to hold her in their arms,
             instead crushing her underfoot,
             embedding her into the earth.
                          Even if a man had heart enough to set her on her way once more.
                           she'd be lost.
                          Her home was burned,
                           village destroyed,
                          family pluck off one by one. . .
             She'd wander in the looming forest,
             to be chased by wolves or the beasts from her darkest nightmares,
             stave little by little until her will was gone,
             or freeze during the icy night,
             where her body would turn to a statue of blue.

                                           But I prefer the story left unfinished.
                                      To picture her forever suspended in the air,
                                                wings fully outstretched.

                                                    She is happy there,
                                            with her little bit of freedom,
                           unknowing her future could quickly come to a end.

                                                              Here,
                                                          she is free,
                                    the little snow angel who learned to fly.