Father was sleeping with an angel.
He was nurturing her bruises, inhaling the hope from her hair.
He said that she looked beautiful beneath her halo.
He soothed the spaces with lies
While she staged desire and wished for the floor.
She left her tongue at the door;
Louder voices have come from ashes.
And now the angel closes the wires on her dress.
She leaves without her polluted dreams,
Without the corruption of a second kiss.
That rising fever may be a star buried in her veins,
A denial of her wasted glow.
But Father can't embrace the light, endlessly long gone.
He has nothing, save the things he battered and displaced.
His flock heard him say a pure requiem yesterday.
Now his colourful display of prayers boils in their closed eyes.
Now they bargain for reheated grace in a frail velvet closet.
Now we shall bring the mirror to blind them,
Blind them with this pale and lonesome truth:
That they have come closer to chaos and decay,
The ones who sheepishly looked away.
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