Angel, part 2
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, bronze leaves 'pon the floor,
His thoughts are tangles of flesh and gore;
He ponders his ailment, and dreams up the cure-
Forgetting his defect, no matter who for.
A voice is heard whispering, deep in his mind
Of pain and of suffering for all of his kind:
Condemned to the night, so that man sees him blind,
Blind to the wings with which he is entwined.
His bangs of blonde hair fall over his face
To cover the eyes of angelic grace.
Those eyes of his, with silver have shined
Yet the sorrow within is lurking behind.
The young man walks on, keeping at bay
Within his own self, his thoughts locked away.
They've been in his head since that fateful day
Of his 'rebirth to the light'... At least that's what they say.
The thoughts are so varied, rationale has gone,
The thoughts are eventually merged into one,
This one single thought, once infinite to begin
Spawned his hatred for his 'gift' from within.
The force of the wind sends a chill to his bone,
Like a quicksilver blade that flaunts its hone.
A voice is heard crying, though he is alone;
He soon realises that it is his own.
He can't help it - freaks have feelings too -
Wings aren't that common, so what can he do?
It's nurture, not nature, that makes the soul:
If only man knew this, his mind would be whole.
As a babe, he was neglected by his own kin,
Found with his reincarnated sin -
His wings, that made an angel of him.
Was he mutant or was he seraphim?
Seen as a God-send by men of the cloth,
But to the rest of the waking world he was not
Seen as human, but rather a demon in disguise;
An outcast, even in his own mother's eyes.
He falls to his knees, composure has fled,
The voices he hears are all in his head,
And as no one cares, he ought to be dead -
Why can't he be treated like a person instead?
Why, why must it be like this?
He can't understand why passers-by hiss;
Or why they flee in terror and awe
And why he's only accepted by the lame and the poor.
His life flashes rapidly before his eyes,
He raises himself, then glides to the skies
He's leaving this world, no need for goodbyes;
There's no one to miss him, he knows as he flies.
With a heavy sigh his heart is set
With eighteen carat gold regret.
He utters 'there is no God' - he is sure -
After all he is human, and nothing more.
© 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, bronze leaves 'pon the floor,
His thoughts are tangles of flesh and gore;
He ponders his ailment, and dreams up the cure-
Forgetting his defect, no matter who for.
A voice is heard whispering, deep in his mind
Of pain and of suffering for all of his kind:
Condemned to the night, so that man sees him blind,
Blind to the wings with which he is entwined.
His bangs of blonde hair fall over his face
To cover the eyes of angelic grace.
Those eyes of his, with silver have shined
Yet the sorrow within is lurking behind.
The young man walks on, keeping at bay
Within his own self, his thoughts locked away.
They've been in his head since that fateful day
Of his 'rebirth to the light'... At least that's what they say.
The thoughts are so varied, rationale has gone,
The thoughts are eventually merged into one,
This one single thought, once infinite to begin
Spawned his hatred for his 'gift' from within.
The force of the wind sends a chill to his bone,
Like a quicksilver blade that flaunts its hone.
A voice is heard crying, though he is alone;
He soon realises that it is his own.
He can't help it - freaks have feelings too -
Wings aren't that common, so what can he do?
It's nurture, not nature, that makes the soul:
If only man knew this, his mind would be whole.
As a babe, he was neglected by his own kin,
Found with his reincarnated sin -
His wings, that made an angel of him.
Was he mutant or was he seraphim?
Seen as a God-send by men of the cloth,
But to the rest of the waking world he was not
Seen as human, but rather a demon in disguise;
An outcast, even in his own mother's eyes.
He falls to his knees, composure has fled,
The voices he hears are all in his head,
And as no one cares, he ought to be dead -
Why can't he be treated like a person instead?
Why, why must it be like this?
He can't understand why passers-by hiss;
Or why they flee in terror and awe
And why he's only accepted by the lame and the poor.
His life flashes rapidly before his eyes,
He raises himself, then glides to the skies
He's leaving this world, no need for goodbyes;
There's no one to miss him, he knows as he flies.
With a heavy sigh his heart is set
With eighteen carat gold regret.
He utters 'there is no God' - he is sure -
After all he is human, and nothing more.
© vig, 2003