I've seen an Angel with one wing, walking with bleeding feet on a path strewn with the shards of broken dreams. Before lies the abyss, a deep and monstrous gaping maw, filled with the bleached bones of those that walked this way before. It is the end of another blind path in a unsolvable maze. There are no breadcrumbs to mark the way back, but a trail of dried up tears. The avatar that carried the light has long since been left behind, the bond between them a fragile line, stretched to the limit and as thin as a spiders silk about to break. All the dreams had already been dreamed and the darkness is just that - a all encompassing feeling of doom where the swishing of vulture wings can be heard and sometimes felt brushing against ones cheek. They settle down and sit all around now, and their timeless, patient waiting hangs thick in the air. There had been glimmers of hope, like faint lights in the distance, high above, well beyond reach. Flickering off and on like fireflies, then disappearing again.
It takes two wings to fly, to reach the light.
And the vultures are waiting patiently. They know their time is near.