The Angel

A Poem by Ian

I'll let you decide on what it is like.

Shadows casted
The work swirls on,
With all dreams blasted
To pure oblivion.

Color and hue
Constantly intertwining
And as I sit upon the church pew,
My bones are grinding.

Grinding, grinding away,
To an everlasting dust,
But still on the ground I lay,
Staring at the angel bust.

Soul piercing eyes stare,
With a head pointing at me.
With its everlasting glare,
All my horrible fears are set free.

They poured out of my eyes,
And floate around my body.
I could hear their mortifying cries,
As I saw their mangled bodies, bloody.

Over and over again they flew,
Circling around and around,
In a perfect circle I drew,
Many apparitions floating just above the ground.

One spirit lunged,
As another came near.
Then all of them plunged,
Into my soul, came all fear.

Fear and apparition alike,
Possessed the body no longer mine.
When I tried to fight,
The angel's eyes started to shine.

It let out a mesmerizing gaze,
And my body lay still.
Then my mind started to haze,
As my mouth started to fill.

It filled slowly to the top,
With warm liquid, dark red.
Then as some of the liquid started to drop,
I saw that around my stomach, I bled.

As I stare at what be,
At the stone cold arm before,
I see what has impaled me,
And created such gore.

I look toward my back,
To see a twisted horrible face,
That Started to break and crack,
And now a demon has taken the statue's place.

In this chapel I lay,
With all my thoughts beneath the floor.
Now the final price I must pay,
As upon the ground my blood poured.

The Angel's arms that we're open wide,
We're truly meant for embrace,
But when toward them my body did glide,
What occurred was nothing of grace.

Oh! What has happened here,
Oh master of illusion?
As the answer came loud and clear,
I see of that my delusion,
That the only thing blinding me was fear,
And my brief confusion.