Perhaps, world is a faint relief
As for lust, we share our sadness
Music and angels sleep together.
For Marry, who wished to cook
for angels, disappeared from Earth
She took the kitchen on her journey.
And, there’s nothing happier than an angel
Who gave birth to seven poems
Who sounds like soft baking lungs
Marry baked white pancakes
and caramel candels.
The gypsies labelled celebration
And, called it silver Moon
Stepping out of the good news,
Trying to abondan her seven poems,
A thunderstorm too proud of it’s rain
left the angels, sanguine and saline
They stopped screaming and
It is that time of the year again,
Hopeless angels are walking in gloam,
Marry has returned to her home
Staring hazard specks and soot
Under her feet, again and again.
Time melts like butter on the tongue,
Still, she just sits there
staring endlessly at wall,
creating images through pain
It is that time of the year again.