Although I pray, it’s the end of the time.
The angel wakes up to flutter his wings.
Fluffing up the cloud’s pillow, he’s sublime.
Snowflakes are the angel’s feathers like spring.
They dance with the wind of change, in despair.
The sky glows pinkly in the shades of thing.
We’re like ill trees screaming into the air
With icy leaves and crystal hearts; we dream
Crystals of weeping tears in our prayer.
Within the sky, God is our bleeding scream,
Digging early graves in the war on crime
While our thread of love weaves wounds for life’s gleam.
Although I pray, it’s the end of the time.
Fluffing up the cloud’s pillow, he’s sublime.
Poem by Marieta Maglas
Lovely write, MM.
An admirable write!
Nice to read your poem . it makes me to think if I’m a part of this great write.Lovely write. Well done Marieta. Regards.