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Poem

I heard an angel speak last night and he said “write”,
“Write of the anguish and pain,
The desolation, and isolation.
May the ink fall like blood,
Spill over the pages,
Making permanent marks,
Never to regain its flawless form again”

I walk down the foot-worn trail,
Bare feet turned black by the earth underneath them.
Here comes that feeling,
The feeling of death.
Creeping up on me, suffocating any lingering hope.
Looking up, a vulture cries,
Like echoes coming from my insides.

I have arrived at my destination,
Black dresses and black umbrellas,
Lined up in lines between the rows of resting places,
Single-file reminders of those bereft of life.
I remain inconspicuous, 
Hidden from the grim party's black veils and mascara stains.
Don't fret, my friend, there's hope for me yet.

She comes in to my view,
Alluring as ever, breathtakingly pulchritudinous.
Touching the cool granite wing, feeling such imperfection,
Takes my breath away.
I pray to my angel,
I pray for them to listen to my story...
And then my angel spoke to me and he said “write”.



Mirella Grosnickle
June 13, 2011
Angels in Cemeteries
Black Veils&Mascara Stains

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