My Fickle Angel Poem by Orran Ainmire

My fickle angel and true soul’s divine
Harbinger of joyful, lachrymose sign.
Was the rosebud’s petal spoiled for spring;
Did it ravenously devour our time?

In the blight of that most sacred hour,
Those accursed pins began to shower
Down upon the unknowing populace
And the lingering, innocent flowers.

Then the sun, with its most offensive ray,
Callously, caustically brought on the day
Of a certain sorrow and verity.
Invidious truths will come as they may.

And so they had come, when I felt the drift,
With that silent schism and lucent rift.
Being granted such pain is a service
At the cost of your loving, precious gift.