My Angel

My angel sings for me his tune
A lullaby of the misfortune
Of those that walk with him
His anger, his disappointment,
His expectations, his desire
To see them soar
Higher
Than the life they have succumbed to.
How he weeps
While they poison themselves,
While weaving quills
Onto wooden twigs,
With needle and thread,
Pricking fresh punctured bleeds
On his cracked healing flesh.

He alludes to hidden treasures
Stored in his solemn solitary mind,
Along with deft rhythmic rhyme,
On spur of flight,
Sending gusts of billowing winds
As I close the holes in my head,
I revel in satin wisps that caress,
I breathe, after it passes,
In harmonic fragrance;
The elixir he poured
In correspondence.

My safe haven,
Wrought out in flesh,
I thank the gods that we met,
That he seeks my company.
Parcels he presents in fleeting moments;
The sweetest scents of his sentience,
Of plush dove wings
That softly comfort;
The warmth
Of sunbeam rings.

That I commit
The same crimes
Of those
Who turn to complacency,
Mediocrity and contempt,
Of those who only listen
To his melody,
Ignoring the harmonics
Of the lyrical tapestry
He’s woven,
Reveals my garbled soul
Of glossy marbled onyx,
Then parts of my body
Sting.

Such love
He holds for them,
For us.
He hopes that the wings he supplies
Will help in our quest for human flight.
His feet supplanted,
Refusing to acknowledge
The truth that slithers beneath his eyes;
That angels
Are born and bred
In few.

The love he has for them,
I don’t have it.
Mine is twisted and mangled,
It hurls acid
In the faces
Of those
Who flick mud on my shoes,
And it doesn’t weave
For men.