The Poetry Of Angel 


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It is that time now
Between certainties

When the sun speaks
no brilliance and the
moon has yet to whisper
the promise of midnight

But I revel in duality
Fancy that sweet line
Of fiendish deception

As the rain begins to
play her precarious

A sound as furious as
That of hornet's wings
When they are shaken
From their dark asylum

And as soothing as
the sound of diamonds
striking velvet as when
a cruel lover brings
such tempting gifts

Rain and cloud are one
until that sweet release

Complete until they have
parted with mad sensual
cries of thunder

And have painted the sky
with a screaming light

So fierce as to blind any
foolish dreamer who
dares to profess vision





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