I wonder if angels cry.
When the scent of fornication smothers the air
And guilt consumes the careless hands immersed in the jar of sordid men. When children kiss blades, painted in their brother's blood. Drinking their mothers tears as though a precious tea.
I wonder if they use handkerchiefs or let rivers rise, feeding from their eyes.
Dancing in birth of the innocent youth, glimmering with hope and prosperity.
I wonder, I wonder.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 12:50 PM UTC
I wonder if angels cry.
When the scent of fornication smothers the air
And guilt consumes the careless hands immersed in the jar of sordid men. When children kiss blades, painted in their brother's blood. Drinking their mothers tears as though a precious tea.
I wonder if they use handkerchiefs or let rivers rise, feeding from their eyes.
Dancing in birth of the innocent youth, glimmering with hope and prosperity.
I wonder, I wonder.
sympathy and tranquillity form my perspective with each drop of ink, being careful not to spill
