Experimenting with Angels

Like so many, she stayed hidden;
like the dead, disguised beneath
their granite stones. Inside her ribs

a gem-like flesh pounded joy,
the music of her distant home.

At night, summer moths flocked
beneath her window, each one
a tiny version of her own addiction

to the flame; wings tattered, burned
could hardly lift her up again.

To most people the world is filled
with longing; to her the darkness
filled with world- ever drawn into

the candle's wick for a single,
simple, catastrophic prayer.


jyamamo said...

Thank you for these. Very haunting and evocative.

Marty said...

Excellent verse - excellent!

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

Yes, it's wonderful. How surprising and how perfect, the use of 'catastrophic'.