Angels 2

Angels tearing into our rotting souls with claws of blades,

Ruthless, they puncture our hearts with icicle-daggers,

We are just vermin to them,

Broken and bleeding after one clatter,

Of a black-feathered, ruby-studded wing,

Feather-tips sharp as razor-blades,

Leave wounds on pale wrists,

Heal to scar and to welt,

To be torn open again by the Angels Of The Darkness.

The End

8 comments about this poem Feed