I've never proclaimed be an Angel
wearing the weighted wings
of the innocent sacrifice.

I've never claimed to be Diablo,
though pitch forks and red
are certainly my best colors.

I don't remember exclaiming truths
or swallowing serums, or vows of full
disclosure, especially the ones
I don't want to hear.

I proclaim love with a beggars sign
in the middle of the April desert
but someone chopped it down.

now, I proclaim noise,
turbulent, breathless
surrender to the voice
of the quiet night.

I remember promises of April.