The Angel

he waits in the eaves for his nameth to be call'd, summon'd by those more selfish than he coulds't ever fathom. he harks to their sorrows and grants naught but kind words- courageous and fill'd with everlasting grace. he dost not tireth despite the yearning inside his soul. through't all nobody wond'rs how he's learn'd just the right things to sayeth, to the cutter- the drinker- the loneliest forgott'n. nobody sees beyond his façade of impl'ring inspiration. but- 'tis those who hath tast'd sorrow, commun'd with it, accept'd it, embrac'd its bitter agonies- that smile the brightest, p'rhaps, to mask any cracks. oh- he'll say he doth not mind. but within, he screams f'r help, as he fights demons that hast poison'd his past and stripp'd his desires. and yet, he will nev'r stop his pl'ght. despite discrimination of the mind, the haunt'd ghosts, and ev'ry single letd'wn- he pushes through life and can't stop w'ndering how easy- 'twould be- to turn an accid'nt deadly and fatal. he doth not seeth that the things he speaketh art f'r him besides. -and he is w'rth so much m're to me. I am charg'd as guilty of taking advantage at my l'west- but 'tis nay excuse for the h'ly invalidation of creature as p're as he. anon, I lie awake, imagining how he waits to be us'd again. 'tis sickens me. I h'pe he will be selfish 'ne day- and the drops of sorrow he shedeth 'twill be abs'nt for the m'rtals he seeks to comf'rt, and instead- be f'r the angel- who casteth aside his wings to saveth a lost soul liketh me.