The angel falls,
Wings useless and still, ageing and withering,
Curling in with the force of its descent.
The angel watches,
Notices a family with its back turned,
A family whose eyes are too clouded with infatuation to notice the loss of a friend.
The angel morphs,
Converts into something ghastly: something twisted, mangled, grotesque;
Too hideous to be recognised by its inner divinity.
The angel speculates
A possible cause for this harrowing loneliness, but even after infinite lifetimes,
Is left with empty hands and a heavy heart.
The angel cries,
Breaking through the unnerving calm with a petrifying wail,
Letting the unwanted burdens roll off its sunken shoulders.
The angel sits,
Waiting for the comfort that has yet to come,
Desperately hoping solace will arrive soon.
The angel listens,
Nods empathetically as foreign troubles are bestowed upon its weakened grasp,
Not one thought spared for its own glassy eyes or cracking façade.
The angel realises,
Finally understands after an unfathomable time spent in toil,
That help isn't on the way.
