The Angel
he waits in the eaves
for his nameth to be call'd,
summon'd by those more selfish than he coulds't ever fathom.
he harks to their sorrows
and grants naught but kind words-
courageous and fill'd with everlasting grace.
he dost not tireth
despite the yearning
inside his soul.
through't all
nobody wond'rs how he's learn'd just the right things to sayeth,
to the cutter-
the drinker-
the loneliest forgott'n.
nobody sees beyond his façade of impl'ring inspiration.
but-
'tis those who hath tast'd sorrow,
commun'd with it,
accept'd it,
embrac'd its bitter agonies-
that smile the brightest,
p'rhaps, to mask any cracks.
oh-
he'll say he doth not mind.
but within, he screams f'r help,
as he fights demons that hast
poison'd his past
and stripp'd his desires.
and yet,
he will nev'r stop his pl'ght.
despite discrimination of the mind,
the haunt'd ghosts,
and ev'ry single letd'wn-
he pushes through life
and can't stop w'ndering
how easy-
'twould be-
to turn an accid'nt
deadly and fatal.
he doth not seeth that the things he speaketh art f'r him besides.
-and he is w'rth so much m're to me.
I am charg'd as guilty
of taking advantage
at my l'west-
but 'tis nay excuse
for the h'ly invalidation
of creature as p're as he.
anon, I lie awake,
imagining how he waits to be us'd again.
'tis sickens me.
I h'pe he will be selfish 'ne day-
and the drops of sorrow he shedeth
'twill be abs'nt for the m'rtals
he seeks to comf'rt,
and instead-
be f'r the angel-
who casteth aside his wings
to saveth a lost soul
liketh me.
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