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Angelica Feb 17
stardust fell down from her honey brown eyes
and kissed the neck of her wooden guitar
and inside her aquamarine gloom lies
truly the most ethereal gold by far
and for every single shaky breath
is worth one hundred dollars to a fool
and for every fragile thought of death
is cut exactly like a priceless jewel
her hurt worn like a 1950s fur
as she licks the rotten fruit of Eden
they rearrange her life all around her
into their own holy flower garden
she, seraph, looks up to the heavens gates
remembers how it felt, plummeting to hate

— The End —