When she cries
she remembers when
you said the heavens
weep as another
angel falls, when it rains.
the skies mourn for
the loss, wearing grays,
and its beautifully strange
when they then clear to reveal
the light of the sun.
but maybe,
maybe,
if she'd collect
her tears and store
them in bottles, post
it all to you, would you
then count each drop as
you slowly watch it pour
when you raise it high,
trickling down the bowl
of the sink, into the drain?
blind.
did you not remember then,
when her heavens wept
for her angel that had fallen
that kept her smiling,
her skin dressed her pale,
and it was beautifully strange,
when it then all cleared to reveal
the light of her sun?
YOU ARE READING
Handwritten | Poetry & Prose
PoetryH.R #3 IN TOLD | A collection of the told and untold, the hidden and revealed, but everything - all this and everything else - written down in solemn words, in phrases, compiled and collected as poetry and prose.
