Some are my
angels
Halo'd and winged

Others my
demons
Horned and singed

These words I speak of,
these ill-fated feti,
doomed remnants on the yellowed page.
Lie lonely,
and shawled

      found in attics and cobwebbed mem'ries long gone
      in scrapbooks and photos of loved ones moved on

Wicked words can devour
the feeble and weak
as they bump into walls in the night.
Sightless,
and hushed

Yet there was once a vision
They once had a voice
And I am not God.
The weak make their own choice