My head is in her lap, as she strokes my hair. She tells of places that never were. Of kingdoms pure and right.
In an open field, a pittance of stars, so little light to call down the angels, or make them real with hope.
She bends down and kisses my head, anointing me with her tenderness, choosing me as her angel.
What flecks of light remain in the blown out darkness, we spin into fine gold to weave a better dream.
And her kisses are the finest gold of all.