i shot an angel
out of the sky.

as i ran through the trees
to see my handiwork,
i remarked at how easy it had been
to aim for the wing.

"angels do not need bandages,"
my grandmother always said,
"and god does not get scraped knees."

i am not a religious person,
angry at this 'god'
for coveting immortality
in his palace,
but i am not usually
a violent person.

resentment led my hand,
aimed the crossbow
at the holy creature
and sent it tumbling,
twirling downwards.

as i reached the clearing,
the world was aflame.
the angel's burning eyes
met mine, and,
seeing as i held the crossbow,
held fast to me.

it expected me to aim,
to take the final shot,
and end its life,
but i had no plans to do so.

i instead edged closer,
crossbow held
but not aimed,
and stared.

the arrow was long gone,
burnt away
by molten ichor.

the angel slowly stood,
wing now healed,
and stared back.

time did not pass.