Wednesday, February 9, 2011


The angel’s face was in shadow,
Darkened by the cloak of mortality,
The shroud of casualty and fate,
A taker of spirits,
Immature or aged,
Unspoiled or rotten,
He lingers, ever present, waiting,
For the murmur of imminent passing.

Her gasp clatters,
Uncouth her lungs rebel,
And when the final declaration is expended,
He lights, like a butterfly,
And whispers, “Your soul He takes,”
Unafraid, she smiles,
Gently enfolded within his cape,
Luminous, they wing heavenward.

No comments:

Post a Comment