The lassitude of angels is one thing
but how the gold got under their skin I don't know
I met them
in the Fields of Mourning where there is no morning
only the end of night the dull gold of transforming suffering:
what is passed on-as milk is pain-passed on to those we love, becoming nourishment, good luck for them
Some colors imply an ease with indirect experience: in the Fields of Mourning the point of each hour is the dream it inspires
and there the angels hang out limp and gold but suddenly anxious if told what trembling joy
their suffering has brought.
༒🜚|~~~~~~~~~~~| ミ★༒
I am tired of angels, of how their great wings
rustle open the way a curtain opens on a play I have no wish to see.
I am tired of their milky robes, their star-infested sashes, of their perfect fingernails translucent as shells from which the souls of tiny creatures have already fled.
Remember Lucifer, I want to tell them, his crumpled bat wings nose-diving from grace
But they would simply laugh with the watery sound a harp makes cascading through bars of music.
Or they would sing to me in my mother's lost voice, extracting all the promises I made to her but couldn't keep.
ARE YOU TIRED OF ANGELS? MYRA SKLAREW
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎
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Darling
Fanfiction"I have stared death and life directly into it's eyes, I no longer fear it. Why do you think I'm blind, idiot boy? It is beautiful, and I crave to see it's eyes one last time." "It follows me everywhere. It wants me to drop dead. It whisperes endles...
