The graveyard in which I stand,
Is littered with the corpses of fallen angels.
The blood that coats my hands,
Is not my own.
The last of the fallen angels,
Grasped my hand in his own,
As he clung to what life he had left.
I stayed by his side,
As he confessed to me,
His desire to spread his wings once more.
I clutched his feathers in my hands,
Promising that someday,
I would fly for him.
I still held his hand,
Even when his skin had grown cold and hard.
I kissed his pale lips,
And confessed to his dead ears,
My one wish.
I taped his wings onto my back,
And spread them wide,
Soaring into the air,
With the wind whistling through my hair,
Holding me up above the world.
I cried out my angel's name,
And that I flew only for him.
As I sailed above the treetops,
The leaves whispered his name,
Remembering white feathers floating down,
On their green canopy.
I flew back to the graveyard,
And buried my angel in his feathers,
So that whenever the wind would blow,
A piece of him would always fly.

 
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