Held by an angel, demented wings, but bright in spirit, yet full of tears. They shelter from the corrupt dark word, more terrorism than it should ever behold.
Comforting, closing me in, my angel holds my innocence.
I may have wings, but they aren’t all white, black scattered, I’ve grown to fight.
My body, my soul, I deserve to grow old, not to be taken from here. Whether in an empty shell or completely here, my angel still holds me, she knows my fear.
It’s dark but it’s light, lightness so bright, prevailing over the storm. Finding the past, recovering that me. Relentless, it despises me. Uncovering facts, assumptions, truths, that me is gone, my angel is proof.
Judgmental of wings, but who cares if they’re veiled? Not all angels are perfect; they can be dark from the start. Doesn’t mean they are cruel or harmful or lost, it means they know hurt, and that is what’s dark.
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