
[This is one of my strangest poems, but also one of my best. The Ashen Angel is a symbol for society today. This poem basically talks about how society is fading and how everyone is too lazy to actually make change, so they look for the easy way out. If you have a different interpretation of the poem, I'd love to hear it! Enjoyzerz.]
Regrets float down her fingertips:
lazy patterns struck in grey,
that float to life at twirling rise—
lost phantoms of a vanished age.
Ashen angel, cry your heart.
Those wings breathe no more lightning,
but your charcoal eyes still speak.
I can see your sickly worship
for the dark that you embrace,
and I sense your brilliant sadness,
speaking echoes through the air.
You relive your mistakes with
every blink of onyx eye,
breathing histories until
the past comes crashing down—
where waves of time find alibis
in this dreamwire state of mind.
Ashen Angel, you are your past,
please don’t live it to death.
Paradise of demolition,
can you thaw her nighttime song?
She asks for freedom, she asks no more,
let her pulse just stain the sky.
Quiet humiliation.
Whisper it: defeat.
No citadel of nirvana,
no root of Earthen make,
no cloud of blind composure,
can persuade a concrete fate.
A sky called definition,
a sky called absolute,
breathes her moonlight vapors,
and pilots shallow bones.
Wishing stars, come out tonight,
speak her twilight, shine;
lend a novaed ear or two,
she begs and cries and hisses
for someone to erase
her seconds in their graves.
But wishes are for the living,
ash has no blood to give.
Besides, what are shooting stars
but space’s martyrs,
flashing for a spot in time?
Ashen Angel, the cures have withered
at your fatal touch of grey,
just one medication
still runs the worldly vein.
Please, I beg of you,
world of industry and flame,
digitalize and metamorphize
her howling moonlight craze—
for her head mold neon halos,
give her robes of finest Kevlar,
blaze chrome on useless skin,
lend her needles for the pain.
Build wonders in a factory,
then purchase her salvation,
inspire hope with green faces,
show her love on the TV.
Comments
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I don't really know what to say except your poetry just leaves me amazed every time i read it.I think this is one of my favourites so far.
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent-Eleanor Roosevelt