Poetry

Angels Cry

when their wings are broken
as do butterflies before they die.

Moon drives her brother down
++++down
down as ink washes over the blood
of the burnt, wretched sky,
a celestial battlefield to the Earth-bound.

Before she slips into the black pool
of sleep, the butterfly who lost her colors
thinks perhaps she may be
++++human
just another angel without wings.

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.