Strange Pain Angels

Strange love and familiar pain,
are some things that I have been used to.
Are what’s left in this brain.
all that feels too,

Angels with broken wings seem my specialty,
not before but because of me.
They leave in silence want no trace of we,
not even a fond memory.

They are sending a message,
through shared dance sorrows.
To give us the vestige,
to strive for tomorrows.

Do that and this,
mostly have bliss.
Beyond the black door,
no celebration to miss.

Plucking Angels

Your name is written up in the sky,
in big and bold dripping red letters.
Written with the feathers of angels,
dipped in your blood for all the betters.

An angel falls every moment,
quill plucking itself to death.
They pluck until they no longer fly,
or until they run out of breath.

You die a little with every stroke,
the well will soon run dry.
If it doesn’t, for each of your breaths
there are a thousand angels waiting to try.