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(This is another one of mine cuz, except for one person, no one is sending any. Send something in and you won't have to keep reading my tripe.) The Angel

The Angel,
for just a moment,
reaches down from the ether.

Her aura
glows against the sky,
shining off Jupiter, Orion
and the Black Forever.

I look
breathlessly to her
as she descends from the clouds,
to rest beside me.

Snowy feathers, downy and warm,
brush against my cheeks.

She speaks,
but only with her eyes
and pretty gestures.

Stories to my flesh,
making me crave for words,
or a simple touch.

And I sit,
eagerly awaiting the next story.

For this time
it may be of her heart,
or her tears,
or even her breath.

But the story never comes.
Because the Angel asks for faith
and I have none to give.

Then she takes me,
the Angel.
She smiles and toys with me blithely,
sensuously,
gliding above me like mist
dancing on the water.

She is the Angel
who she speaks for God.

I have no choice but to listen,
laying still beneath the warmth of her touch,
smelling the sweetness of her skin.

And I stay with the Angel
until I surrender my soul.
I stay
until I, too, believe in heaven.

For that is the brief moment we share,
the moment where I think of eternity
and I pray
that she does the same.

But then the Angel,
as if she knew it all along,
touches me with her gentle, angelic hand,
and sends me quietly away.


by Scott Burton