I killed another angel last night- a trophy for myself, others, the world. I waited with my trap and, caught its foot as it was preparing to fly away. Imagine such a glorius being- Wings like looking through opals through secluded ponds, ripples shifing the tide of colors. A face like a sunset in June, with a sun, a canary- colored rose surrounded by vermillion shades, creating a spectrum of feverish hues. Milk-like folds drape the floor, seeming to envelope the room in holiness. Such an alluring creature. I had no regrets killing it. Did an angel need its own life as much as I need it? I needed it, its naive, trustful face. I wouldn’t dare endow them upon anyone else. They are sacred to me. Halos clutter the floor of my room, from those before, filling it with a waxen, golden glow. The wings still lie in my closet, managing a self-composed appearance while the lie in heaps. The feathers now like looking at steel, worn and shadowy. And the heads line my walls, now void of June, and filled with December, distant, glacial expressions on all their faces. They are mine. They are my trophies, my reminders, my treasures. I am the Archangel.
Reason for writing:
I am pretty much an atheist so I wrote this poem which has a lot of hidden refrences in it.
Birth sign: Not entered
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