Monday, January 17, 2005

the night angels cried

Blood. I am covered in blood. Not mine. Somebody else's. It sticks to my skin, turning it to its color. Red. Red as blood. IT IS blood. Not mine. Another's. It smells. It wreaks. HIS EYES...staring at the dark. No choice, nothing else but the dark.

I wonder if he hears his children crying over him.
I wonder if he feels us as we carry him from the blood soaked floor he was laying.
I wonder if he feels his crying wife's arms as she embraced him tightly.
I wonder if he felt us drop him as his body became too heavy.
I hope he didn't. I hope he saw nothing. Felt nothing. I hope that even in the violent nature of his death, he left peacefully.

Why does this have to happen? His children look like angels. Angels cried that evening. Angels wailed and moaned. Angels lost. They lost their father.

Tell me anyone. Tell me what good does this bring. Tell me what good can be had from the tears of an Angel? Tell me the meaning of this. Tell me its ultimate reason.

Can you hear me? Do you care? Do you care what happens to your Angels? Do you realize how much you favor your demons, your devils, your evil? Do you?

Why do you kill those that need to be alive?

Tell me.

If you dare. If you are there. At all.

1 Comments:

Blogger isha said...

"there are more things in heaven and earth, horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophies"
-shakespeare

11:27 PM  

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