The Fallen Angel - Poem by Matthew Buchwald
The stars cry too bitterly this morning:
like a dying child, in the cradle, alone,
with a tight fist, sullenly warning,
until someone arrives, an absent chaperone,
sleeping, she loses herself in weird dreams,
beats her wings over desecrated islands,
on a crumbling reef spattered with moonbeams,
drowning in the ocean, like severed hands.
Although at times she breathes a happy sigh,
if her bitter mind hears her guardian coming nigh,
the careless ruler, abettor of grief's sad hour,
keeps that mild sigh from blooming into joy,
its artless noise like an unopened flower,
which he cuts off as if it were a toy.
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