Broken Poetry

No Title

The angel stood at the edge of the clouds, her scarlet red hair and pure white dress moving with the wind, her tears flowing down her cheeks, and her wings spread out far and wide. Cuts, burns and bruises covered her pale skin, her innocent face, her beautiful wings. Broken chains lay at her ankles and hung from her wrists. Yet she wore a pearly white smile over the pain.

The world below her was a cruel place, and I don't think she knows that as she jumps and falls, her wings unable to fly with all those injuries. One hundred times, I have seen the same dream, but not once has she jumped. Not once has she smiled.

Just before she hits the ground, the dream stops and I wake with tears of my own in my eyes.

I never had the dream again, but one morning, on my way home from work, I see that hair once more, on the snow covered floor. Same white dress, same scarlet red hair, same bruises, same cuts, same burns, same tears, same chains, same wings. But no one else can see her as she cries out my name into the darkness of the night. No one else can see her as she claws at her wings. No one else can see her blood spill into the snow. No one else can see her as she tries to kill herself once more.