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Why Am I Not An Angel?

Why Am I Not An Angel?

2 mins
6.8K



As the rain pours on the plastic wraps
Laid lavishly on the tiles of rooftops
Outshining the thunder are it's sounds
Like burning crackers or Magic Pops in my salivating mouth?
Some drops drop on tin,
Occasionally screaming tang-ting.
The clouds are turbid like starch,
Left in my Ammi's rice pot.

Lightening strikes another star,
Abducting it's light forming a cracking scar,
Tearing the sky into factions:
Of dead-living,
Of living-dead.

The clouds, the stars... the sky,
Ensnare me like black magic in time.
The distracting scent of silver carp
Absorbing the flavours it's stomach,
When alive starved,
It ceases as she appears
Enslaving the gourmet in me.

Unlike how I've seen her
In Bible and in movies,
She doesn't look felicitous.
Her wing is tattered,
Tattered by the forays.
The other boasts of the softest feathers
Drooping with the wind, the airy wave.

Her eyes aren't brown, black or blue-
Void of empty dreams,
Reflecting what I can already see.
Clay roofs, constructing buildings, dirt and cement
No soil, no earth and our gimcrack girth.
Like debris of heaven sprinkled as vintage seasonings.
On such a height, though these are some diatribe sights.

She's weak I can feel her.
The relieving clouds her soul comitatus.
Nothing powerful how I imagined her to be- Our salvation, the mistress in Alchemy,
Vigilant and graceful,
Scrapping every ort of humane disgrace.
Like Dante's wicked Angel
Tattooing the seven P's on the sinners' front.
Putting an end to their illicit epoch
Preparing them for the grevious tenure.

Although the stars alligned in syzygy
Bind her head,
The starry tiara leaves her no one to care.
As though under a somnabulistic trail,
I watch her embiggening ahead my rusty grail.
So fragile, so ethereal do her cheeks feel,
Untouched under my fingertips.

The air gets warmer as she comes closer,
Closer and closer she moves.
My back is icy cold to break on a broken feather's groan
But I feel hot... and sweaty and melting and guilty
Like she comes from somewhere the sun and moon, between.
'Move away,' I want to plea.
But there she stands glaring right at me,
Showing me... Me-
The only dark shug I see in her burning magnesium beauty.
So white yet not bright.

'Why am I not an Angel?' she asks.
Her voice most soulful.
Her face most painful.
Before my tongue finds it's lost spirit,
She loosens and billows in vacuum-
Mystically black abyss awaits thereafter.
That's her denoument?
Why I am not an Angel?


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