Last night I saw ten angels die. I dreamed
their halos slipped into the sun and grief
disarmed their wings. The devastation seemed
expected: seven of them smiled, relief
embroidered on their faces, strangely pure.
I cried but couldn’t wake in time to keep
a single feather safe. What was the lure
of this descent into the void? What deep
awareness of futility could spur
them into hell, aware but not dismayed?
This morning ached like sorrow: saboteur
extraordinaire. Ten angels fell. Decayed.
Cirrostratus camouflaged the sun
like fragile wings too easily undone.