Ancient river curls
like a snake unfurling
in the morning sun.
The fallen angel
kneels in silt and strokes
quilted reflections,
lamenting these
are the only clouds she
will ever touch again
fallacy
illusions she can smear
with ripples to remind herself
it’s just a mirror.
The sky is untouchable now.
She mourns her mortality,
her innocence
in a sense.
She, who used to compose
stories in the stars
with an unwritten alphabet,
letters neither you nor I
have read
like ashes in the bending wind
scattering seeds across
the prairie’s bed.
Weary head bowed,
she folds her bloody
wings like a wilted
autumn leaf.
Her tapestry shall remain
an unfinished piece
of art admired by many
while the artist looks on
with glassy eyes,
the only one
who sees the faults in her
masterpiece.