:: Angel's Aerie ::

:: Sunday, January 12, 2003 ::

An as-yet untitled and unfinished poem...

The night glides in
on silken wings
to lift my soul
from the stench of decay.
There is blood on my lips
as the tears pour down;
Both are kissed away
with a rustle of feathers.
A flash of silver before my eyes
and my vision dims, turns inwards
Back lit only by the stinging realization
of my faults and failures.
But buried within the darkness of my despair
lies a small glimmer of hope.
Unbowed by the bleakness of its surroundings
it sprouts gossamer wings and flies free...

:: Angel 10:51 AM [+] ::
...