Our Better Angels

Our Better Angels The polished floor reflects a moonlit gleam, A silent chapel holding a dark dream. I etched my plea into a cold white tile, A fragile hope against a coming wile. But from the smooth surface, a form takes hold, A sister to the stories left untold. Her eyes, like shards of glacial ice, are keen, Reflecting landscapes desolate and mean. I banished her, my palms a trembling dish, To catch the fading grace of a last wish. I called her "Angel," with a whispered vow, To prune the thorny branches on my brow, To starve the hungry tendrils of despair, That choked the fragile blossoms growing there. Yet she returns, her beauty sharp and stark, A sculpted terror, leaving its cold mark. Within her grasp, a mirror starts to gleam, And in its depths, I see a shattered scheme. She murmurs secrets of dominion vast, To turn my future into shadows cast. She says, "You shaped me, with a knowing hand," And in her tone, I hear a cold command. She is the flawless self I yearned to be, Untroubled by soft-hearted misery. And as she laughs, a crystalline, clear sound, I know the darkness I had hoped drowned, Still breathes within, a chilling, feminine grace, Reflected in the terror of her face.