Morbid Fairytale

Midnight.
Thoughts jostle
To find
Tangibility.
They whirr
As frenzied dervishes.
Round…and round
And round.

She screams whispers

Rain carves
Polka dots upon her skin.
Wet
On blazing flesh.
She juts a tentative foot
Over the parapet,
Sprouts a pair of slippery wings
That’d fall off the moment
She’d open her eyes,
Unclenches her hold
On life and its
Things
And pretends to fly.

That night
An angel crashed into concrete
And died.