These Damn Angels (a poem)

what’s all this talk of

angels hunched over

in storm-clouds with

their harps, waiting for me

to make a mistake so

they can swoop down

throw me over cliff-tops

then tell me it was

my own suicidal free-will?

i detest these damn angels

like the fey folk that

give omens of death,

retreat back to hill mounds

ever so present

as above, so below

never giving me rest

just like the rest

of wretched humanity

(Photo by Fernando Venzano on Unsplash)

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