Felicity came, ethereal spirit, broken winged angel.
I lay on my side looking at her in the dark of the room.
Her light flickered and was ashen grey, blurry at the edges.
She was dreaming, a moment of sleep out on the front.
She sent her light to me, as I lay in the mental asylum,
slipping away from her and what remnants remained of hope.
Her smile was strained, and she held her side, chest rising laboriously.
Even in dreams we hurt and we bleed and the demons come to claim us.
I had been awake all night, and now I could make it through, for she came.
Her light walked towards me, still in her tattered and dirty uniform.
She crouched beside me, and she stroked my cheek, looked into my eyes.
I saw the light becoming distorted, I saw the horrors blotting out her hope.
Tears filled my eyes, and I felt shame again at being broken, and left behind.
Through her light, she kissed my head, tenderly kissed my lips, wiped away the tears.
The war was here and it was everywhere, no escape from the blood, the loss, the bitterness.
She stood up, and then flickered and disintegrated and then was gone, her eyes lingering.
She can never stay, only comes in the dead of night, and is losing herself out on the front.
I am broken and cannot be by her side. I weep bitterly. I slip away into tormented sleep.