A phantom drifts into a meadow’s sunlight, her body materializing as the rays illuminate her silhouette. If you listen long enough, over the sifting of wind through leaves, you can hear not a sound from her.
When the Fallen manifests in the corporeal realm once again, her soul is burdened by suffering, an ashen smoke which swirls around the ghost.
These ashes becomes her bones.
They creak and snap into place, swift as sin. Yet, without lips she speaks in novels, for the past which cloaks her chokes the very air.
This cloak becomes her skin and heart.
It wraps around her bones in a seamless stroke. A final knot nestles itself behind her ribs, and blooms. Without shame she is perfection, for those battles which scarred her old body now feed her heart.
These scars become her blood.
It rushes through her pallid flesh and twitching fingertips. Without regret she is brave, for those fears she endured brighten her soul with a melody that cannot tamed.
This melody becomes her voice.
And with it, the Fallen speaks in whispers in tune with gentle winds, in screams like lightning crashes and commands which rise with the ocean's swell.
The pads of her feet feel the familiar touch of grass and earth. A broad grin stretches across her face, and laughter breaks out in tears down her cheeks. For she is no longer the Fallen, nor the Lost, but she is newly risen.
She is human.
She is death.
She is creation.
And onward, she must go.