Hurting Angels

St Joan’s, after the war has taken everything. I sleep on the pews. I stay out of sight.

The cold nights. The dim moon. The statue of Joan looks so sad. So let down by us all.


I pray at the altar. I see perfect light. I hear angels singing. I hear whispers of things to be done.

I pray at altar. I am at peace. I am afraid. I am promised the way. Home is not yet for me.


The war rages. I hear gunshots and shouts, sometimes. There are fires in the dark.

The angels are telling me to go. I am to light the sky again. I am to show the warmth of heaven.


First light. A gray ashen snow fell in the night. My steps are silent. The world is still.

North to the forests. To empty highways. To all the lost and hunted. God is with us, the hurting angels.


The grey sky breaks. And even in winter the sun is warm on my face. Drips of water. A still wind.

I am afraid. I am at peace. I am following the angels. I am out into the world.

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