Her Bare Feet Not Touching The Ground

Angel’s eyes are grey and cold and sharp.
She looks at me, between sleep and dream,
floating in front of the TV playing a pop princess,
and that bright sight and deathless glory swallows me.
 Asleep on the couch again, the angel reachs in my head
and finds the sacred things there to burn, so I’ll be hers.
The dreams of a winter paradise and my sweet lover
are ashes as the angel’s desire for summer and blood overide.
 The angel floats over to me, looking down upon me, harshly.
Her long, thing fingers stroke my cheek, turning warmth to death.
She kisses my head, and I am sealed to her, in Earth and in Heaven.
She takes my soul through my eyes, to keep her young and mighty.
 I shiver, I shake, the cold creeping through me, my heart in a frozen fist.
Yet I adore her, as I look up at her, her bare feet not touching the ground.
I am flesh, and devoured and claimed by the powers in the sky, in the ground.
I am hers, and I worship the cold she leaves, in the deathlike promise of sex.
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