Breccia

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.

An Angel on Fire

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.

Are There Cradles in Heaven?

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?

Angels

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

Lilith

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.

Angel

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