There she sits high above all...
To watch in rapture at what became of the world she knew.
Longing to touch each one of them again.

Her palms are sore from the stigmata.
On top of the tower,
even her back is still tender from the chains.

Observing the living...and the dead.
Staying the perpetual cold and welcoming the chill,
That keeps the icicles from breaking off her wrists.

The feathers don’t help much,
Not when you can’t fly away.
Vigilant,
As the funeral procession plays for her.
They all do today...

Finally the sun sets in the sky,
And she lingers for the final hour of light.
Knowing the company she keeps in after hours,
Only makes the grave patrons nervous.

She never sleeps that well anyway.
Too many pleas from souls who need to be saved.
But she is only one angel, one watcher, and one conscious,
Too filled with grief to be their rescuer today.

But she will enfold them in her wings,
Making light of the old life that’s passed,
And shelter them from fear of what’s to come.

It’s only then,
When the children dry their tears.
That she can close the door on Wednesday,
And sleep again.