The fine line between
flying and falling
is born in the aftermath
of an unexpected kiss.

Where fallen angels
rend useless wings
from their broken backs
and the disembodied stumps
flop uselessly
amongst oblivious lovers
who lick angelic
blood from tenuous flesh
and stuff pillows
with down that
was crafted directly
by the hands of
god.

She is the breath taken
before a warning.

The pillows become
a grave yard of tears
mixing with the blood
of dead angels
that litter the bedrooms
of the lonely.

She is the picture that
proves god,

burning in the ashtray
of a blind man
that has left
too many lovers
dangling at the
end of ropes.

Climbing rose vines
wrap around their ankles
and the winds are
trying to set them free...
trying,
but they fail in their intent
and merely serve
to drive the thorns
in deeper.

Their blood trickles down
pinking the water
I serve to my lover.

It tastes of roses,
and a vague sense of loss.

...and soon she falls
into my flesh
and we dance
and kiss
and ruin delicate
lace,

but we both know
we are doomed to trip
over dead angels.

05/29/2005

Author's Note: Stained with rose petals I fall into you.

Posted on 05/30/2005
Copyright © 2024 Max Bouillet