.
Hello archangel,
fallen goddess behind my morgue.
Whose complexion equaled the moon,
craters and abysses,
cascading like salt on
an empty
wound.
With the crosshairs of nicotine
a mirage on her cracked lips;
“Leave me,
lowly poet,
Your pity is unbecoming.
I am the 13th fallen sister,
so linger here
no longer.”
“Death is an old friend,
I fear not his company,
nor his demise.”
I’ve never seen such eyes;
glass-stained,
divine & unpredictable.
“I’ll **** you.”
“Darling, I’m already dead.”
Her monologues could summon the dead,
she preached of the lovers
who bore no fruit
and the heartless
that lay eternal
in the eyes of
her dalliance.
I’d often find myself
yearning at the pebbles at her gravestone,
impatient, to be graced by her
ink soul and rhapsodic presence.
“Are you my friend,
poet?”
“No,
I am much more.”
And for centuries
of cracked dawns and
folded nights,
shallow moons &
crippled suns,
we’d meet---
poet to god,
at her morgue.
“Poet,
why must the most beautiful
people die?”
She once asked me.
Alured, I answered:
“When you’re in a garden,
which flowers do you pick?”
“...The most beautiful ones.”
I’d spend my seconds ‘neath the gallows,
among the bones
of her brethren,
all had fallen before her,
from the house of god.
I bargained my soul with Ursula,
my sins with Lupus,
I ignored their tempertantrums
& discord.
That very evening I stitched a universe,
upon her shoulder-blades.
“What are these?”
“Wings.”
This was a commission, for an old friend.
I'd already used one of my popular sayings
in my other poems.
© Copywrited