Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2017
the brisk north winds have me
standing on a bench in the bus shelter
with my hands held up to the space heater
hot air rises and i imagine
all the angels in heaven burning
and their ashes are white like snow
i imagine i’m ankle deep in angel dust
and my cold urticaria doesn’t hurt
and i imagine an endless slumber
induced by the cries of the dying cherubim
and my last breath is a discernible
cry for help
oliver g wilikers
Written by
oliver g wilikers  21/M/Scotland
(21/M/Scotland)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems