Poezja

Day to day anguish
Fills our routines
Through times
We are no longer gifted.

False vivaciousness
Proves to be
Salt in a wound
We have self-inflicted.

Angels, they say, 
Watch our every move.
Our souls
Will be brought to soar.

They are said to walk
The same as I, 
But finding them
Means quite the chore.

The fabled wings
I have yet to see.
The pureness of their eyes
I've yet to face.

In the end
We are all hopeless to them, 
Awaiting their
Warm Embrace.