The Wicked Angels come out sometimes,
Whistling beauty like it ain't nothin';
Yelling at us in fire-white voices that we are damned;
Showing us our flawed humanity with a laugh track cackling out irony; and
Tenderly settling us into a downy bed of our inevitable anger.
My wicked angel
Sputters true things at me while eating sausage.
He ties my desires to a sanctified stone and throws it in a river,
And ignores me when the splash hits my face.
He dances wild and naked in sheet lightning nights and asks why I am not really free.
He points out over coffee that failure is a natural bastard.
I must say, this angel is my favorite.