Angela,
The girl who clipped her wings,
High and tight
She fits in now and walk right
Her discipline replacing feathers
But no matter how she plucks at her skin,
that song she sings remains within
Quiet, like a Sunday breeze.
She climbs higher and higher
craining her neck to spy above the clouds
she has forgotten she can fly
That her meridian is also wide
her heart beats, an oil drums, lacking dew
Where the soft down used to be.
Brittle, hungry,
she pounds herself into a box too small,
but her light shines through,
just a flicker instead of a blaze that once
Drew in the ghost of St Patrick's past
Coaxing the snakes out of that Eden
Under the rubble of Queens.
Eyes wide but blind
Writhing and entwined
shedding their skins
Hoping to find their innocence again ;
Through it may be on the wrong
end of the morality stick,
And it will come down hard and thick
But as we know "everything that rises must converge"
And so she climbs one step at a time
And slowly comes undone
to the beat of that oil drum,
Her heart -- keep timing on that jagged line
where we lose our graps of grace
And have to face
the truth of our doings
Alone
without angles.
And may it please those fallen Angels
that she too will know
what it means to be without her beloved,
Bed empty
After use
and still, she, Angela, longs for the flesh
of a Ghost not seen
Felt in a dream
And so her wings cropped and pulled in tight
She climbs into the light
~Lela Loren~
hewontgo
