Morning Angel

She watches from her bedof crumpled sheets,out thewindow to the morning sun.Stretches out a delicate legyawns behind her tiny hands.The night is done.The leaves have caught ashade of gold,starlight’s printon broken glass,out therelife is turning round,the soundof sirens children’s calls.The hubbub of the town.She gently strokes her softwhite skin, surveys the bruisesthat he left,turns the sheet toair the stress of nightmares,fears,a lover’s sweat.The marks of time.Each day’s a tumbleweedof hope, the light falls roundher like a dress, and everyslip’s a stab at make believe,that time will cease,that love will live,that heaven’s not abarefoot path;to anything less.