Wilted halo,
broken wings,
sash torn with
rusted daggers,
knelt on the ground,
dirt touching
bruises,
the invisible tears
falling onto the ground
and blossoming
dead
flowers.
I'm trying to be an angel.
A cold
rusting cage
lowers from above,
and hair
bows in
dark emotion,
lids pressed closed
as
the rusted lock
clicks
so familiarly.
It's so hard to be an angel.
A simmering whirlwind
of
regret,
pushing the mistake
against
head's temple,
a whimper evolves
to pain.
I can't be an angel.
The dagger
leaves a shadow
in the sunbaked
floor,
a new shear
in the sash
and darkened
feathers
floating,
wet streaks
on the face
of ash.
I was never an angel.
The cage
disappears
but the cuts
burn
in the increased
rays,
and eyes cower
from the clouds above,
cotton balls
drenched with
blood.
I'm a demon.
YOU ARE READING
Feathers: A Book of Poetry
PoetryA pencil is the spotlight of a soul. It tells them its okay to overflow. It tells them ideas are art, and that the best ones are masterpieces. Feathers is a collection of poetry by me to convey the beauty and undeniable strife of the world, and emot...
