Angel, part 1
The young man walks, long coat trailing the ground,
The night air is bitter, yellow moonlight shines round;
Creatures of the night are silenced by the sound
Of his invisible aura, silently crowned.
He wanders park central, frail leaves 'neath his feet,
The nature in contrast with stone-cold concrete;
Mortal's destruction is almost complete:
Ashes to ashes, from tarmac to peat.
A voice is heard sighing, alone on the grass,
The young man stops, the sole one to pass.
A flick of his coat, blonde hair, eyes like glass,
'May God always love you,' from his aura of brass.
The sighing then ceases, the figure would now
Be at peace with himself; 'Oh thank you... how
Did you know?' The young man smiled back
Before disappearing into the still of the black.
As the young man walks on, hands inside his sleeves,
A girl is seen crying upon hands and knees.
The young man kneels 'side her; his long blonde hair frees
As he whispers 'God loves you, so stop weeping... Please.'
The girl looks up, ceases sobbing and says
'Who are you?' The young mans stands up and displays
His eyes flickering silver as the girl wipes her own
And with a smile the girl leaves: the young man is alone.
The young man continues, and then yet again
Is greeted by weeping; sees fresh blood and then
He finds the old man, clutching his chest in pain;
He's been stabbed in the torso, so the young man remains.
He removes his trenchcoat, to cover the man
Who is somewhat alarmed by the young man's wing-span;
'May God's strength now heal you-' bleeding stops at once;
The old man stutters, 'thank you', then promptly absconds.
On passing a park bench, the young man now stands;
There's a drunkard out cold, bottle in cold hands.
As he studies the addict he knows and understands
Why he lies here. 'God is with you, be still,' he commands.
He takes off his trenchcoat, and virgin-white wings
Envelop the vagabond who looks up, his heart sings;
'Gabriel... Is that you?' He mutters though the cold.
The young man contentedly smiles, beaming gold.
©vig, 2003
The young man walks, long coat trailing the ground,
The night air is bitter, yellow moonlight shines round;
Creatures of the night are silenced by the sound
Of his invisible aura, silently crowned.
He wanders park central, frail leaves 'neath his feet,
The nature in contrast with stone-cold concrete;
Mortal's destruction is almost complete:
Ashes to ashes, from tarmac to peat.
A voice is heard sighing, alone on the grass,
The young man stops, the sole one to pass.
A flick of his coat, blonde hair, eyes like glass,
'May God always love you,' from his aura of brass.
The sighing then ceases, the figure would now
Be at peace with himself; 'Oh thank you... how
Did you know?' The young man smiled back
Before disappearing into the still of the black.
As the young man walks on, hands inside his sleeves,
A girl is seen crying upon hands and knees.
The young man kneels 'side her; his long blonde hair frees
As he whispers 'God loves you, so stop weeping... Please.'
The girl looks up, ceases sobbing and says
'Who are you?' The young mans stands up and displays
His eyes flickering silver as the girl wipes her own
And with a smile the girl leaves: the young man is alone.
The young man continues, and then yet again
Is greeted by weeping; sees fresh blood and then
He finds the old man, clutching his chest in pain;
He's been stabbed in the torso, so the young man remains.
He removes his trenchcoat, to cover the man
Who is somewhat alarmed by the young man's wing-span;
'May God's strength now heal you-' bleeding stops at once;
The old man stutters, 'thank you', then promptly absconds.
On passing a park bench, the young man now stands;
There's a drunkard out cold, bottle in cold hands.
As he studies the addict he knows and understands
Why he lies here. 'God is with you, be still,' he commands.
He takes off his trenchcoat, and virgin-white wings
Envelop the vagabond who looks up, his heart sings;
'Gabriel... Is that you?' He mutters though the cold.
The young man contentedly smiles, beaming gold.
©vig, 2003