Angelina lay cold and still,
Her back bare,
Her bones exposed.
Even angels succumb to disease.
A few feathers here,
A few more there.
At first she didn’t worry,
All angels shed their feathers
Once in a while.
When the white flesh began to show
Where once blue feathers ruffled,
She knew it was over.

An angel without wings!
A sorry state, indeed.
Tears shed in the dark hollow,
Followed by self-pity and recriminations--
Angelina the featherless fiend.
She wasn’t an angel, but a demon!
God has no pity for sulking saviors.
Cast out of the Heavens, clipped raw
And aching, her trembling loss of confidence
Enfolds her in humanity.

Angelina lay cold and still,
Her back bare,
Her bones exposed.
Now mortal, she still retained
Her spread of angel bones,
Those diseased appendages that
Lost her God’s favor.
Only an artist could help her now,
And she lay before him
While he formed the mold,
While he fashioned the multi-colored
Feathers of Angelina’s wax wings.

Dena L. Moore