Through the thicket of a beautiful forest,
Filled with indented platters of thin, feeble, flakes of emerald known as leaves,
Hiding the eyes of immortal souls – souls wrapped with fur and curiosity – looking eagerly at the sky,
The angel's feet kissed the ground, challenging dirt and air with her immaculate stature,
Winking at the timeless world,
Beholding wings so white my peppermint-breath forms repugnant stains on it as I approach...

As she jerk back with a gallant smile,
As she laughed a laugh taken from a hymnal's grace,
As she withers off my blackened bravado,
I weaken 'till I freeze in place.

“I have come for answers to my prayers,”
I explain before my time is ceased,
Sunlight subsides further and further beneath the horizon,
Aging the infant known as today,
I get a stare of the angel's inflated eyes,
The color of runny, spoiled egg yolk green,
Tapering to the color of evil; vermillion red.

Her mouth begins to move,
Creasing her charred, yet glossy lips,
Before you know it a wide crack emerges on her cheek,
During the ajar of a developing answer to my hapless hopes,
A crack so ill-suited to her clear, oily face,
from the left of her lip to her temple,
her three middle fingers wade through the facial trenches,
through the the brook of non-existent blood,
we both fear a realization,
that this was the work of a disapproving God.

Artificial erosion takes place right here in the heart of the forest,
Wind clattering against the trees,
Collapsing them down inches from my feet,
“Have we triggered an apocalypse?”
I ask almost inaudibly,
I expect a shake or nod of a head for an answer,
yet instead I see a smooth, crumbled mistress,
fallen into grass in a mound of desolate marble,
Chunks of topknot braided orange hair is what remains an organic piece,
And I see her severed wings fly off back into the merciless heavens.

My hope and faith is waned.

Knees falling numbly to the ground,
While I weep a soundless cry,
The marble deteriorates to a black smoke that licks ground,
Careening on and off of it ever so nimbly,
And it isn't soon 'till I'm engulfed,
'Till I'm whisked to the top of the cloudless sky by it.

Engulfed,
I'll mention once again,
In this sadistic foggy relic,
I rub my damp eyes and see that my carrier congealed,
Congealed to a black, tar-like bubble deeming me its embryo,
An umbilical tentacle fuses with my stomach,
My prayers have cowered in another nook.

I leave the world unanswered,
Yet in a sense it's okay,
As I look down to the familiar landscape,
Through the undulating enigma,
Watching down the hives of cities,
The eyeless sockets of valleys,
I know that with a world so vast,
An answer is beheld.

I don't need an angel's pity,
That can very well be made of Styrofoam,
To reap me of my subconscious veranda,
A place filled with curious benches that face the undying sun of growth,
A place where I can rest myself,
And think freely with no boundaries.

Wisdom is a world to explore,
Not a world to cheat off the all-knowing,
Milk a cow and drink what you produced,
Or drink a carton of blackened poise,
The choice is yours,
I can see you crumble as we speak.