Morbid, Melancholy & Macabre Monday

Okay, so here's the deal.  I asked if y'all would be interested in reading some of my personal poetry and the response was overwhelmingly positive.  Monday seems like a good day for the kind of dark things I write.  So, today, to ease you into it, I bring you this piece.  Tomorrow, if I get time, I want to talk about the difference processes I've noticed between writing a blog, a novel and a poem.  Tell me what you think.

1000 Weeping Angels - ESH 12/2014

“It is strange”, she intoned in the morning, “the way the grass is always wet even if it has not rained”

Almost as if the angels had wept all night and then put back their pretty smiles the way they are trained”

I, always the smarter and less emotional one laughed and said, “and why, my dear, might the angels be weeping?

Might it be for the broken-legged bird, those who sleep on the streets or all of God’s secrets they are keeping?”

She turns away, as if I’d struck her, and sighs, as she often does.

“I don’t know why the angels weep.  Maybe they cry at weddings, or out of sorrow or pity.  Or what was.”

I smile at her then, this tender-hearted beauty who had slain the demons who had struggled to rip her apart

The crafty stunner who had risen with her sword above her head and every piece of her torn and weary, except her heart

Would her foes ever know what a lover she was, how she cried out with passion in the night?

Would they ever know how she woke slowly with delicate kisses and worry for 1000 angels in the morning light?

She is at her most bewitching in these moments, when she is not on guard, not awash in worry,

I will never share this side of her, I am selfish, the devils are dead and we’re in no hurry.