Drink of Angels
Floating downward from above,
the ivory feather of an angel's
wing.
Making love with the emerald
earth,
a white rose starts to sing.
Virgin petals slowly born,
warm velvet against cold glass.
Slowly unfolding wings of her
own,
she flies free at last.
Drops of ruby rain fall,
tainting the pure with lies.
Blood seeps through the purest
petals,
they turn to ice; shatter; die.
She slowly drowns in her
crimson sea,
after she whispers a brandy
tear.
The feather turns coarse
shades of jet,
drinking from her fear.
Long since forgotten she hides
away,
a black and gray memory.
If you listen closely you can
hear her whispers,
her prayers; her cries; her
pleas.
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