I am the angel with the wings over her eyes,
Thriving in a land full of happiness and rose colored tints.
If my pupils were to meet the greetings of fluorescent lamps,
I would see the reality of it all.
The reality of the plague standing bare-chested in the mirror;
Her opalescent eyes gazing back in a tear-stained blue,
The rolling hills of her porcelain skin tinged with pink
And the mahogany hair in sweeping curls below the collarbone.
There is no beauty in this angel.
Only the wings distinguish her from the demon within
That rages with fervor unknown to the modern man.
The angel is only but a mask.
What would Mr. Peacock say?
His darkened romanticism is the only antidote.
Only his gothic swirls of the pale Ligeia
Could ever allow the plague to subside.