He hangs behind ashen branches,
A lowly demon, a lonely man;
With wings bearing rotting fruits,
And a body of a Fallen Angel.
Moonlight gleams around him,
As to not touch his abominated form,
Unwilling to grace his deformed heart,
He does naught but stand in night skies.
Wishing to be seen, yet not to be touched
Not to be heard, or consoled,
Only a shell of who he once was;
The plight of mortals he loved.