The Angels Are Crying

This was written for my second family that I met on the RPG sites World of Potter UK and EU. They mean more to me than I could possibly describe. They helped me more than anyone or anything else.

I am maker.

Innovator, creator,

Achiever, believer.

I am that which was born of man,

In a time of hatred and greed,

Where there was dire need for one of my lifetime.

The kind that lived in the time when man knew not,

Exactly what hate was.

And I travel down my own road.

The road I walk is one less travelled,

And though I walk with caution my soul is unravelled,

Twisted by the dying words of hope and light.

Yet for me those are not out of sight,

Even if, undying is the dark,

And all I hear are the angels crying.

The road I walk is one for only the hopeful,

Some say the cracks can make you fall and never return,

Some think you can’t learn from the mistake you made,

Choosing the road lain,

Opposite from that which was chosen for you,

Some think the blackened fog ahead will eat you alive,

But I thrive in the misery.

Because God is watching.

Isn’t he?

Do I, one of mindfulness, have some kind of guide?

Is there someone or something watching and waiting,

Knowing that when I fall they will provide a hand,

Take me from the beaten road and keep this life intact.

Or do I travel blind?

Not knowing where or when I am,

Having no sense of purpose or direction,

Is the journey I elect to take an infection on my belief,

My hope and dream that life doesn’t truly seem as bad as it is.

Do I keep walking and keep trying?

Or do I stop still in the chill of wind,

And listen to the angels crying.

I know its dark.

I know that it feels like night time,

I know that words expressed in rhyme cannot fix the path I walk,

I know simple talk won’t change my fate,

That the travellers I approach at crossroads don’t wait for me.

They don’t see the pain I feel each day,

Yet the continue to preach their hang on, keep hope, carry on mentality,

They don’t even see me battle the duality between living,

And dying.

And each minute the angels are still crying.

My feet stuck to the pathway,

I used the day to look to the clouds and scream at the sky.

Praying for a reply I look up and ask,

Why?

Why should I, Atlas of man, be made to bear the pain of travellers?

Each word and syllable is a bloodstain on my mind,

Inside I feel my heart going faster and faster,

I can’t keep going.

I think myself worthy of liberties from heaven,

I’ve tried to remember that the very essence of my being,

Revolves around keeping everyone believing,

That it's not as bad as it seems.

I spend my life behind all else,

Building ladders, crafting stairs,

Trying to repair the broken souls of those,

Who wish to get out of their hell.

Pushing each and every one through the fire,

I know that I,

Will be the last to reach heaven.

But if I don’t,

Then I hope the angels will be crying.

If I must be the hand to help others,

Then who, I ask, will help me?

The travellers I aide don’t stop for me,

They only see the way I push them toward,

Through the fog, through the fire.

Their own desire becomes one they center around.

And I stay on my road, without a sound.

Now, I am wanderer.

Seeker and speaker,

Taken by despair.

My road is becoming narrow and the abyss comes nearer.

But I look ahead,

The fog, becomes clearer.

A traveller appears in the distance.

Two, three, five, nine.

A whole herd of travellers combined as one are on my road.

I am taken in by their unity,

And hope that they will not ask, but give.

Give me an opportunity to stand once again.

I feel blessed as I am offered a hand.

My legs are trying to gain strength once again,

And as I see the light of day,

The angels are crying.

Tears, of joy.

With them there is nothing that can destroy my hope.

Because what is a life worth living,

If you have none to carry you through the dark?

Giving you strength,

And reinforcing your belief,

That nothing lasts forever if you wish.

The cracks are mending and the fog clears,

The angels tears can be felt in the rain,

I know now my pain is minimised and feels only like a bad dream.

And things aren’t as bad as they seem.

Now, I am whole.

I have family.

Not by blood but by heart,

And though this family is made of broken pieces,

They keep telling me that they’re just a start.

Though I, Atlas of man,

Anchor them to hope.

When they say they can’t I tell them they can,

When they believe they won’t I will shout,

You will,

When they walk the path and stand still,

I get to the back and push forward.

Because they pushed for me.

They gave me hope again,

And I’m no longer empty.

Standing in the silence with my family,

I look to the sky and listen.

The angels aren’t crying.

Because when your family are truly your heart,

It never matters how far they may be.

We’re never apart.

Author's Note

Any suggestions for how it is written are much welcome