— White leopard; gold angel speaks
In soft, her mildew-honey tune:
And up upon that gorgeous face,
A sunny clime of hair she blew:

Sneering lips, and men wonder why
At each moment she pounce' in wait:
Dare not the eyes that which she bore,
Those black-beetled minds oft' elate.

And peach-moon skin still catches eyes
Of mine, which cannot fend— and yet,
In all known moments when she sighs
They bathe a room in sunny rend.

And ne'er forget will I that common gleam,
— That gold-white leopard I rarely see.

full moon, nervous edge, sweat beads,
my lungs are bruised and beaten,
and my heart is made of bone.
why, pomegranates bleed,
sigh and remain uneaten,
calcify or rot alone.

i saw persephone cry
and all the angels alight,
stark and sad in burning flame.
a soft weeping right nearby,
holy fires of the night,
and i swear i heard my name.

possession requires a host,
but i couldn't catch my breath
stumbling through the graveyard.
i don't believe in ghosts,
but the awesome fear of death
caught me lonely and off guard.

i will try to describe it:
in the face of this feeling,
your guts are on the table,
your insides exposed, moonlit,
mine were cold and revealing,
dead, skeletal, and mangled.

Maybe death is a win.
A win from all the pains
A win from this life of many sorrows and troubles.

Death might not be a win but it's the end of pains and troubles and the beginning of an unknown path.

If there's any ease in death, Rest easy Mom🕊️🕊️

"What do you mean, when you say 'angel'?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean why do you call me that. What does that word mean to you?"

"You know what it means."

"Sometimes I think I do."

"It means dark thing. Because there's a violence to it. Because it's hard to see. Like looking at the body in the distance- the thing standing between the trees, with only the faint glow of the moon illuminating its face."

"You think angels are dark?"

"I think angels are mysterious. You know they're there, but that's it. You think you know what they are, what they look like, but you're incapable of grasping their image."

"So, what does that look like?"

"It looks like everything. And nothing. Total darkness, blinding light."

"Sounds.. overwhelmingly incomprehensible."

"That's why it looks like different things to different people. A woman, a man, the recurring nightmare from your childhood. Some people think it looks wrong. But to an angel, there is no wrong way to have a body."

"Now why does that sound familiar?"

"I think an angel looks like a sword. Like the terrifying indifference of nature, and the undying, righteous rage of a person with a good heart. All and none, never wrong in their being."

"And this is what you call me?"

"Yes. This is what I call you.
My darling mystery. My dark thing.
My angel."

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦
𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦
𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴
𝘐 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘺

𝘛𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦
𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦
𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘦

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩

𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳
𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘻𝘻𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦

𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥
𝘛𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘐 𝘥𝘰
𝘛𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦
𝘐𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶
𝘐𝘧 𝘐'𝘮 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦

𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵
𝘚𝘰 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥
𝘐'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥