She strides down with certainty:
head held high,
hair whipped back
by the hot winds.
No one bothers
to halt her advance.
You usually have to haul
the screaming and reluctant.
If she wishes to descend,
so be it.

She marches on the palace.
She moves with serpentine grace
and a devilish gaze.
You would know.
Mortal souls do not cross
the threshold of this place.
She does so unhindered,
as fanged and taloned guards
cower in her wake.
You lurk at a distance.

She enters the throne
room with faithful steps.
You can hear the king laugh,
and imagine
her black eyes mirthful,
tortured and enchanting.
You cannot imagine
those abyssal eyes
betraying any kind
of honesty or light.

The world will shudder
when they emerge,
arm in arm, perfect teeth
bared for the fatal bite.
A most terrible king,
and a vengeful commander.
The darkness, firecast,
grows like spreading wings
in the shadows
of these angels fallen.