Morning Angel

She watches from her bed
of crumpled sheets,out the
window to the morning sun.
Stretches out a delicate leg
yawns behind her tiny hands.

The night is done.

The leaves have caught a
shade of gold,starlight’s print
on broken glass,out there
life is turning round,the sound
of sirens children’s calls.

The hubbub of the town.

She gently strokes her soft
white skin, surveys the bruises
that he left,turns the sheet to
air the stress of nightmares,fears,
a lover’s sweat.

The marks of time.

Each day’s a tumbleweed
of hope, the light falls round
her like a dress, and every
slip’s a stab at make believe,
that time will cease,

that love will live,
that heaven’s not a
barefoot path;

to anything less.

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