The real angel wept at
his impostor's grave audacity,
and sepulchre clouds gave deluge birth
to the acid of his eyes.
The downpour teemed relentless,
punishing soil and battered leaves,
drilling earthworms in their coffins
to consume what therein lies.
Then the monuments gave voice
to his anguish gaping mouthed,
forged of marble, moss and lichen
as vines in each crevice crept.
He bowed beaten by
her poetry, the Spanish of her smiles,
and the sharp yet sleepy beauty
of her soul windows whilst she slept.
The real angel wept
and in his weeping did acknowledge
that this goddess he revered
was to him both Heaven and Hell.
He discharged lightning forks of prayers
in the hope she would conduct them,
and in electrified accord
feel the same for him as well.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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