Paper Wings

I saw an angel in my dreams
from a vantage point up high.
She was standing on a narrow ledge
and gazing at the sky.

Brilliant eyes of sapphire blue
set in a cherubs face.
Chubby fingers wrapped around
a narrow metal case.

She was dressed in ivory cream
and velvet soft as skin.
Her halo made of molten gold
glittered from within.

Precariously perched upon her back
were wings, so long and proud.
Though made of feathers and of paper
not of magic nor of cloud.

Upon closer examination
this angel of mine was exposed.
Not the creature of joy abandoned
as I had once supposed.

Dirty tracks of tear streaked lines
ran down this cherub face.
Sapphire eyes once brilliant blue,
now red with tears replaced.

Bruises marred her perfect skin
royal purple, blue, and black.
Her dress was torn and spotted red
for blood ran it’s own track.

The metal box held in her hands
she opened with infinite care.
Sprinkled the dust of someone’s grave
in the smoggy city air.

With halo of molten gold still bright
she leapt from her narrow perch.
My angel plummeted toward the ground,
a single twig of birch.

For wings of paper and of feather
though wings they still may be,
cannot carry you to the clouds
and cannot set you free.

So Angel, with her paper wings,
made the final trip to earth.
And somewhere in my tears and rage,
she’ll find a quiet rebirth.