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Ghosts of Angels Live on my Ceiling
Ghosts of Angels live on my ceiling
I count cracks on feathers.
The flutter disheveled wings.
I can hear their sharp whispers.
They are Talking about me.
Voices are Needles.
Their stares have sewn my eyes open.
Translucent fingers grip the walls.
I watch quietly
The movements of their pale shadows.
Frail.
They are talking about me.
This knife in my side and the blood in my eyes.
They say I have a holy disease.
I haven’t eaten in days.
Their soft hands crumble like powder.
The fine mist falls along my crown.
Silhouetted Angels Watching,
Wishing I could be something Beautiful.
