She is Angel,
lighting cigarettes in the morning.
I feel her ashes
on my eyelashes
She sews the world
with tight craftsmanship
and chrome stitches
from a needle made of driftwood.
When the incandescent clouds roll by,
her mind locks with no combination
and calm is not the same as sedation.
Stolen from a sky
that takes no prisoners,
a special kind of blue
in the window of her solitude
brings elation of soul
and a paradox of the mind,
leaving nothing but unwelcome grey
behind teeming clouds
that refuse to release the rain.
We both bare the scars of broken down soldiers
but they are part of my heart
and a piece of my brain.
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