In the Garden of the Melancholic Angels

 

Despite the joys and birth of days

It’s in the shadows lives are formed.

And emptiness has taken grip

With hollow hold and weighted wings.

 

In dreamless sleeps and deathlike states

These creatures, raised in setting suns,

Have soaked my life’s imperfect truths

With bile as bleak as printer’s ink.

 

Their tools of resurrection rust

Beneath the darkening Autumn skies.

I’ll wear their wreath of drowning hopes,

No matter how the lights might spark.

 

As comets trail their dust of tears,

My hopeless questions cling to fears.

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2 Comments to “In the Garden of the Melancholic Angels”

  1. Quite excellent. Wonderful metre and rhyme.

  2. wonderfully done.loved the title and the poem as a whole.

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