When you hurdle
into your pit-painting
gargling with salt-water,
you’ll walk and lurch
over something
quite remarkable, friend
with no tonsils.
There you were
and there you are, friend
with no tonsils –
inside that fruit
painting, two
feet for apples
and nature
spirals out of control
with it’s reproduction
and cigarettes.
Then in an instant;
what lies beneath the beams?
Those beautiful miracles
complete and endless
on the floor. Two
wings, two angel wings
singing and smiling
as you wish them to.
They aren’t broken, yet
feather of the wing.
The best word that
the wings ever described
it’s onlooker as:
‘Ethereal.
Ethereal.
Ethereal.’
Two angel wings
laying on the floor,
they crack like an egg
into a pan, why
shouldn’t one be so pure?
shouldn’t two angel wings
be strong?
Magnetic currents
file out from the
wings and brawl
onto the concrete.
The onlooker looks
towards the sky.
The wingless angel sighs
sitting on his stone cloud.
Rain pours down all day.
Mary X.
'The wingless angel sighs sitting on his stone cloud. Rain pours down all day.' yes, i like your poetic voice better... ~kelly
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
loved it....deep yet so subtle....