Poetry

Angel Wings.

It's like walking on a tight rope.
Except there is no net, just a noose around your neck.
This isn't no ordinary circus.
The only ones who come to play are the sad.
They come in black and white stripes because in this life they are caged.
Waiting their turn.
The ringmaster is the devil.
He juggles your sins while he hands you over to the Grim Reaper.
We don't got fire blowers but we do got fire breathers.
Jumping through rings of fires to take you straight to hell.
I wouldn't describe it as a place of fire.
More of clarity.
Might be a tortured soul but there's nothing you can do once you're dead.
The devil came for me once.
Said I reminded him of a familiar feeling.
Kept me chained right next to his angel wings.
Wasn't his queen but his clarity.
Just the same I his angel wings.
I was the angel that never got to fall.
Bloody back my angel wings just another mystery.
That's when the circus came after me.
No longer an angel just the idea of one.
So let the show begin for all will fall.