| A broken soul came to me last night, he lay at my feet and he wept till his tears had run dry. He told me his heart had been torn and thrown away; that all he had known had been shattered long ago. I did not speak, only knelt and held his head to my breast. My heart spoke the comfort that I wished my lips could repeat. He listened, cried on my skin, bled on my hands. His back, it was torn, the glorious wings ripped away. Still raw, are the wounds, still fresh are the inhuman scars. This beaten down angel, a beautiful wreck in my arms. I placed my lips on the purning skin of his furrowed brow. He clung to me, asking me, telling me not to go. He said he's afraid of the dark, he's afraid of his soul. He asked to live in my eyes, to live inside me as if I was something better than him. He looked to me and pleaded with eyes rimmed with silver as though I were holy, a spirit, a saint. A broken soul came to me last night. Lonely and forgotten. He touched the dirt and the dew that still clung to my face, and told me that I was beautiful. -end (October 10th, 2002) |
| Ode to the Broken |