A beautifully imperfect creation, Mottled in angst and frustration, Capturing stray drops of sunlight To warm you on the colder nights. The open evening air calls you To gain that moment of solitude Between the sediments of thought Lined and calmed in melodies. You don't absorb or reflect When bathing in the day's light, But refract polychromatic splendour Through your fused shrapnel. Each playing piece considered and Placed within the web of fragments Builds a mosaic of endurance: A tenacious testament of truth, Boldly embraced through fractures And acknowledged reality splinters. The weathered debris of survival Formed you a formidable warrior Encased in your own clast armour: Sharply witted within awareness, Yet dynamically poised, prepared For metamorphic elevation.
The feathered wings smelt the worst, Like plastic had fucked hair and created hatred. The smoke those feathers created Wrapped itself around every breath And burned our tracheas raw. At first, His visit was delightful, But as judgment reigned on our indiscretion The townsfolk yelled witch And bound His wings with the rope They bound their wives with at night. We were entranced by the screams Just as we were oft enraptured in each other’s sex. Gleefully we cheered melting skin, And screwed as the fat charred, Breathing in roasted celestial. The final flames danced at the messengers’ feet As townsmen recovered from climax, And wives licked each other's wounds clean. We satiated all violent and sexual desires, The day we set the Angel on Fire.
The unborn soul haunts me, Digging claws in deeper. Pulling my feelings into contortion. Why aren't they in Heaven? Has she brought them here? I wanted to be a good mother, I wanted to hold her when she cried, It was my fault I couldn't, Not hers. I was careless and stupid and young. Are there cradles in Heaven? Does a better person rock her to sleep at night? Do they tell her she is loved and cared for? Does she know I love her and I'm sorry? Do they tell her I'm her mother? Or am I the devil who left her there forever? It's hard to be a woman When you should have been a mother. I'm in no high regard with God, I'm written on none of the entry lists, I accept this duly. Has she grown at all? She'd be older now, right? Or is she cursed to her prenatal form? Does her daddy visit her? Does he look into her eyes with love? Or does he avoid her gaze from hating me?
I do not believe, Angels do not exist, Yet three protect me here, A fourth watches me. Thank-you. I love you all. For everything I am grateful, Eternally. I love you all, More than words. You are all angels. Whether here or above, My angels. I love you
Beneath the moon-drop eve he waits, Watching time drift past his brow, Whilst the owl twittered in the ferns, And the sparrows nestled in the twigs, And the cold wind wisps wild 'round the willows, T'wards the twisted taverns of town, So he waits past the sunset, Waiting for the angel of his hearts desire. He waits for the girl of god, With rich brown locks draped over Her petite and delicate face, With silken, glossy skin that's laid Perfectly over her womanly curves. Fine satin flows over her form, Crested gold sits upon her hair, Crowning her with the first woman's halo.
A loving touch, From tender skin, And words as soft As petals. With golden hair, an affectionate smile, To match the Shining halo. Breath like ice, Yet warm with love, An angel he is, The angel loves, Not a gift But to shine Pearling whites, A smile of love Of loving delight