Of Fallen Angels

An old cathedral on the west end of town
Where the ravens circle the high tower
Is were he sits, light to his back
In the ruins of a life he could have had.
His eyes remain closed, unnaturally white hair blowing in his face.
Sword resting on his shoulder
The ravens can be heard above;
Their slight cawing is the only sound
That can fill the once holy place
This time, like the last
He will have no where to go