The angles had guitars even before they had wings,
and his fingers wove delicately through nylon strings,
and the ends of my hair,
playing tunes that only I could hear.
His chest thumped in rythem,
echoed past morgues
and cemeteries like church bells.
His mouth was as simple as an oceans shell,
vibrating the voice of God through bones consumed in sin,
and silence.
Fragile and infinite.
He held me in a cradle made of skin off his back,
rocked me like the waves do the shore,
and sang me peacefully at rest.
He was the lords gift to mankind,
to me.
And even though his hallow fell tight around his neck,
and serpents arrived one late September night,
his wings burnt markings of Christ along the the floor.
Poison swam through his veins,
and cursed his eyes to black,
but still he sang the tones of faith.
For a boy created in hands so holy,
he sure did die a death devoid of mercy.
