My Wayward Angel
Sitting astride the rainbow
on a rain-washed day
She picks a black rose,
dark and devious like my soul,
and looking askance at me
with a twisted smile
she starts plucking away
one petal after another.
I quivered with a strange
suppressed sensation,
I felt the rose
wriggling and thrashing
like the butterfly
I once tore apart its wings.
It seems the dark angel
of those wayward days of my youth
wouldn’t want to leave me alone;
It stalks me, haunts me
and drags my soul over
the smoldering cinders…
I find myself sitting
astride a funeral pyre.
~Maytime Premier contest by Brian Strand.
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