In the hush of a twilight that lingers too long,
where the edge of the world is a whisper of pine,
an angel reclines on a throne carved from song,
a book in her lap like a bottle of wine.
Its cover is cedar, still fragrant with rain
that fell on the forests the loggers forgot;
she opens it gently, as one might unchain
a memory too tender to ever be caught.
The pages are snowfields—each word is a track
left soft by the deer who remembered the way;
she reads of the ranger who carried the pack
of every small creature too frightened to stay.
Her wings are of parchment—thin, trembling, and white,
inked faintly with rivers that glaciers once knew;
they flutter like letters too shy for the light,
and settle like mist on the breath of the true.
A candle of beeswax, no taller than peace,
burns steady beside her—no wick, only flame;
it drips into letters that never decrease
but grow like the quiet that follows a name.
She lingers where lovers once carved their initials
in bark that has healed into rings of regret;
her fingertip smooths till the scar grows official,
and love becomes forest, and forest forgets.
The letters rearrange while she breathes on the page—
a mountain unbuilds, then rebuilds itself whole;
a widow finds laughter, a tyrant finds age,
a desert drinks mercy and blossoms in soul.
She reads of the poet who planted a verse
beneath the old oak where the hangman once stood;
the margin grows roots, and the verse grows diverse,
and justice grows shade where the gallows once would.
Her halo is quiet—a ring of small stars
that orbit the silence no echo can fill;
she listens, then turns to the chapter that mars
the ledger of loss with a signature still.
The book is a meadow; each word is a bloom
that opens at dusk for the moths of the night;
she walks through the petals, and petals resume
the shape of the dreams that the dreamers lost sight.
She reads of the child who released the caged bird
and watched it return with a seed in its beak;
the page becomes sky, and the bird becomes word,
and freedom grows wings where the timid grow weak.
When dawn starts to tremble and night starts to fade,
she closes the book with a kiss on the spine;
the spine seals shut like a promise remade,
and morning arrives with a signature fine.
Then, folding her wings like a scholar’s last breath,
she shelves the great volume where no frost can cling;
the angel steps back, and the silence is death—
a world newly written, a debt newly singed.
And somewhere in Oslo, at three in the dawn,
a stranger looks up from the snow on the street,
smiles without reason, and carries on—
an angel has read him back into the sweet
unfolding of mercy no heart can withstand.
where the edge of the world is a whisper of pine,
an angel reclines on a throne carved from song,
a book in her lap like a bottle of wine.
Its cover is cedar, still fragrant with rain
that fell on the forests the loggers forgot;
she opens it gently, as one might unchain
a memory too tender to ever be caught.
The pages are snowfields—each word is a track
left soft by the deer who remembered the way;
she reads of the ranger who carried the pack
of every small creature too frightened to stay.
Her wings are of parchment—thin, trembling, and white,
inked faintly with rivers that glaciers once knew;
they flutter like letters too shy for the light,
and settle like mist on the breath of the true.
A candle of beeswax, no taller than peace,
burns steady beside her—no wick, only flame;
it drips into letters that never decrease
but grow like the quiet that follows a name.
She lingers where lovers once carved their initials
in bark that has healed into rings of regret;
her fingertip smooths till the scar grows official,
and love becomes forest, and forest forgets.
The letters rearrange while she breathes on the page—
a mountain unbuilds, then rebuilds itself whole;
a widow finds laughter, a tyrant finds age,
a desert drinks mercy and blossoms in soul.
She reads of the poet who planted a verse
beneath the old oak where the hangman once stood;
the margin grows roots, and the verse grows diverse,
and justice grows shade where the gallows once would.
Her halo is quiet—a ring of small stars
that orbit the silence no echo can fill;
she listens, then turns to the chapter that mars
the ledger of loss with a signature still.
The book is a meadow; each word is a bloom
that opens at dusk for the moths of the night;
she walks through the petals, and petals resume
the shape of the dreams that the dreamers lost sight.
She reads of the child who released the caged bird
and watched it return with a seed in its beak;
the page becomes sky, and the bird becomes word,
and freedom grows wings where the timid grow weak.
When dawn starts to tremble and night starts to fade,
she closes the book with a kiss on the spine;
the spine seals shut like a promise remade,
and morning arrives with a signature fine.
Then, folding her wings like a scholar’s last breath,
she shelves the great volume where no frost can cling;
the angel steps back, and the silence is death—
a world newly written, a debt newly singed.
And somewhere in Oslo, at three in the dawn,
a stranger looks up from the snow on the street,
smiles without reason, and carries on—
an angel has read him back into the sweet
unfolding of mercy no heart can withstand.
In the hush of a night that refuses to end,
where the moon is a bookmark pressed flat in the sky,
an angel leans over a lectern of wind,
a book in her hands like a lullaby’s sigh.
Its cover is midnight, embroidered with scars
of every small war that the heart ever waged;
she opens it gently, as one who unbars
a door to the silence the living have caged.
The pages are mirrors of smoke and of rain,
each word is a ghost that remembers its name;
she reads of the father who carried the chain
of anger across every threshold of blame.
Her wings are of parchment—thin, trembling, and torn,
inked faintly with paths that the broken once knew;
they flutter like letters too weary to mourn,
and settle like frost on the breath of the true.
A candle of sorrow, no taller than grace,
burns steady beside her—no wick, only tear;
it drips into letters that soften the space
between what was lost and what lingers here.
She lingers where lovers inscribed their goodbye
on walls of a city that crumbled to dust;
her fingertip traces till stone learns to fly,
and ruins grow gardens from ashes of trust.
The letters rearrange while she breathes on the page—
a tyrant finds laughter, a widow finds song;
a desert drinks mercy and blossoms with age
that teaches the young how to never belong.
She reads of the child who forgave the dark room
where monsters were born from the shape of a belt;
the margin grows dawn, and the monsters resume
the shape of the father who never once knelt.
Her halo is quiet—a ring of small moons
that orbit the question no answer can hold;
she listens, then turns to the chapter that croons
of every small mercy the silence retold.
The book is a cradle; each word is a breath
that rocks every sleeper too frightened to wake;
she sings through the verses, and verses confess
the weight of the dream that the dreamer must take.
She reads of the thief who returned to the cross
and nailed back the nails with the palms of his hands;
the page becomes bridge, and the cross becomes loss
that carries the weight of forgiven lands.
When dawn starts to tremble and night starts to yield,
she closes the book with a kiss on the spine;
the spine seals shut like a wound that is healed,
and morning arrives with a signature divine.
Then, folding her wings like a scholar’s last sigh,
she shelves the great volume where no shadow clings;
the angel steps back, and the darkness is shy—
a world newly written, a debt newly sings.
And somewhere a stranger looks up from the rain,
smiles without reason, and offers a hand;
an angel has read him back into the chain
of mercy no ending can ever withstand.
where the moon is a bookmark pressed flat in the sky,
an angel leans over a lectern of wind,
a book in her hands like a lullaby’s sigh.
Its cover is midnight, embroidered with scars
of every small war that the heart ever waged;
she opens it gently, as one who unbars
a door to the silence the living have caged.
The pages are mirrors of smoke and of rain,
each word is a ghost that remembers its name;
she reads of the father who carried the chain
of anger across every threshold of blame.
Her wings are of parchment—thin, trembling, and torn,
inked faintly with paths that the broken once knew;
they flutter like letters too weary to mourn,
and settle like frost on the breath of the true.
A candle of sorrow, no taller than grace,
burns steady beside her—no wick, only tear;
it drips into letters that soften the space
between what was lost and what lingers here.
She lingers where lovers inscribed their goodbye
on walls of a city that crumbled to dust;
her fingertip traces till stone learns to fly,
and ruins grow gardens from ashes of trust.
The letters rearrange while she breathes on the page—
a tyrant finds laughter, a widow finds song;
a desert drinks mercy and blossoms with age
that teaches the young how to never belong.
She reads of the child who forgave the dark room
where monsters were born from the shape of a belt;
the margin grows dawn, and the monsters resume
the shape of the father who never once knelt.
Her halo is quiet—a ring of small moons
that orbit the question no answer can hold;
she listens, then turns to the chapter that croons
of every small mercy the silence retold.
The book is a cradle; each word is a breath
that rocks every sleeper too frightened to wake;
she sings through the verses, and verses confess
the weight of the dream that the dreamer must take.
She reads of the thief who returned to the cross
and nailed back the nails with the palms of his hands;
the page becomes bridge, and the cross becomes loss
that carries the weight of forgiven lands.
When dawn starts to tremble and night starts to yield,
she closes the book with a kiss on the spine;
the spine seals shut like a wound that is healed,
and morning arrives with a signature divine.
Then, folding her wings like a scholar’s last sigh,
she shelves the great volume where no shadow clings;
the angel steps back, and the darkness is shy—
a world newly written, a debt newly sings.
And somewhere a stranger looks up from the rain,
smiles without reason, and offers a hand;
an angel has read him back into the chain
of mercy no ending can ever withstand.
In the hush of a gloaming that never quite sets,
where the sky is a page still awaiting its ink,
an angel perches on the rim of regrets,
a book in her grasp like a heart on the brink.
Its cover is dusk, woven tight from the cries
of every farewell that was never returned;
she opens it slowly, as one who unties
the knot of a sorrow too heavy to burn.
The pages are oceans—salt-stained and immense,
each word is a wave that remembers a shore;
she reads of the sailor who leapt from the fence
of reason, and drowned in the myth of “no more.”
Her wings are of vellum—thin, trembling, and pale,
scribed faintly with routes that the exiles once trod;
they flutter like letters too fragile to mail,
and settle like dew on the breath of a god.
A candle of starlight, no wider than hope,
burns low at her elbow—no flame, only hush;
it drips into letters that coil and elope
with every small grief that the world tried to crush.
She lingers where children drew maps in the dust
and labeled the future with crayons of trust;
her fingertip smooths till the borders combust,
and nations grow gardens from ashes of must.
The letters rearrange while she whispers their names—
a widow finds laughter, a tyrant finds rain;
a desert drinks mercy and blossoms in flames
that warm without burning, that heal without pain.
She reads of the widow who folded the shroud
and used it to sail on the wind of her grief;
the margin grows mast, and the sail is unbowed,
and grief turns to harbor, and harbor to reef.
Her halo is quiet—a ring of small bells
that chime without sound when a promise is kept;
she listens, then turns to the chapter that swells
with every small kindness the darkness once wept.
The book is a forest; each word is a tree
that roots in the marrow of stories untold;
she walks through the branches, and branches agree
to shelter the wanderer out of the cold.
She reads of the beggar who gave his last coin
to purchase a mirror for someone unseen;
the page becomes window, the coin becomes join,
and poverty ends in the shape of a queen.
When night starts to tremble and morning intrudes,
she closes the book with a kiss on the seam;
the spine seals shut like a vow that concludes
in silence too gentle for even a dream.
Then, folding her wings like a letter unsealed,
she shelves the great volume where no moth can cling;
the angel steps back, and the darkness is healed—
a world newly written, a debt newly singed.
And somewhere a stranger looks up from the street,
smiles without reason, and offers a hand;
an angel has read him back into the sweet
unfolding of mercy no heart can withstand.
where the sky is a page still awaiting its ink,
an angel perches on the rim of regrets,
a book in her grasp like a heart on the brink.
Its cover is dusk, woven tight from the cries
of every farewell that was never returned;
she opens it slowly, as one who unties
the knot of a sorrow too heavy to burn.
The pages are oceans—salt-stained and immense,
each word is a wave that remembers a shore;
she reads of the sailor who leapt from the fence
of reason, and drowned in the myth of “no more.”
Her wings are of vellum—thin, trembling, and pale,
scribed faintly with routes that the exiles once trod;
they flutter like letters too fragile to mail,
and settle like dew on the breath of a god.
A candle of starlight, no wider than hope,
burns low at her elbow—no flame, only hush;
it drips into letters that coil and elope
with every small grief that the world tried to crush.
She lingers where children drew maps in the dust
and labeled the future with crayons of trust;
her fingertip smooths till the borders combust,
and nations grow gardens from ashes of must.
The letters rearrange while she whispers their names—
a widow finds laughter, a tyrant finds rain;
a desert drinks mercy and blossoms in flames
that warm without burning, that heal without pain.
She reads of the widow who folded the shroud
and used it to sail on the wind of her grief;
the margin grows mast, and the sail is unbowed,
and grief turns to harbor, and harbor to reef.
Her halo is quiet—a ring of small bells
that chime without sound when a promise is kept;
she listens, then turns to the chapter that swells
with every small kindness the darkness once wept.
The book is a forest; each word is a tree
that roots in the marrow of stories untold;
she walks through the branches, and branches agree
to shelter the wanderer out of the cold.
She reads of the beggar who gave his last coin
to purchase a mirror for someone unseen;
the page becomes window, the coin becomes join,
and poverty ends in the shape of a queen.
When night starts to tremble and morning intrudes,
she closes the book with a kiss on the seam;
the spine seals shut like a vow that concludes
in silence too gentle for even a dream.
Then, folding her wings like a letter unsealed,
she shelves the great volume where no moth can cling;
the angel steps back, and the darkness is healed—
a world newly written, a debt newly singed.
And somewhere a stranger looks up from the street,
smiles without reason, and offers a hand;
an angel has read him back into the sweet
unfolding of mercy no heart can withstand.
In the hush of a library carved from the dark
between two heartbeats that never quite meet,
an angel sits cross-legged on silence’s own mark,
a book on her knees like a child half-asleep.
Its cover is twilight, bruised violet and deep,
bound with the hush of a lullaby’s seam;
she opens it softly, as one who would keep
the echo of dreams that refuse to redeem.
The pages are mirrors of water and wind,
each word is a ripple that carries a face;
she reads of the mother who never rescinded
the curse of her silence, the ache of her grace.
Her wings are of parchment—thin, trembling, and old,
inked faintly with roads that the lost used to roam;
they quiver like letters too heavy to hold,
and settle like snow on a traveler’s home.
A candle of moonlight, no taller than breath,
burns steady beside her—no wax, only glow;
it writes in the margin the opposite of death:
a small, stubborn yes where the answer was no.
She lingers where brothers divided a field
with fences of fury and syllables sharp;
her fingertip smooths till the iron is healed,
and wheat grows again in the shape of a harp.
The letters rearrange while she hums through the night—
a city unbuilds, then rebuilds itself whole;
a widow finds laughter, a tyrant finds light,
a desert drinks mercy and blossoms in soul.
She reads of the poet who burned every line
because none were worthy of sorrow’s true weight;
the ashes rise phoenix, the verses align,
and beauty is born from the ink of regret.
Her halo is quiet—a ring of small stars
that flicker like questions too gentle to ask;
she listens, then turns to the chapter that mars
the ledger of guilt with a signature basked.
The book is a river; each word is a stone
that skips across centuries, skipping despair;
she walks on the water, and water alone
remembers the weight of the cross that she bears.
She reads of the thief who returned to the tree
and nailed back the fruit that he stole in his youth;
the page becomes orchard, the thief becomes free,
and Eden grows back in the shape of the truth.
When dawn starts to threaten the hush of her vigil,
she closes the book with a sigh like a prayer;
the spine seals shut like a wound that is civil,
and morning arrives with forgiven air.
Then, folding her wings like a scholar’s last note,
she shelves the great volume where no shadow clings;
the angel steps back, and the silence is wrote
with stories that rise on the breath of new wings.
And somewhere a stranger looks up from the dust,
smiles without reason, and offers a hand;
an angel has read him back into the trust
of mercy no ending can ever withstand.
between two heartbeats that never quite meet,
an angel sits cross-legged on silence’s own mark,
a book on her knees like a child half-asleep.
Its cover is twilight, bruised violet and deep,
bound with the hush of a lullaby’s seam;
she opens it softly, as one who would keep
the echo of dreams that refuse to redeem.
The pages are mirrors of water and wind,
each word is a ripple that carries a face;
she reads of the mother who never rescinded
the curse of her silence, the ache of her grace.
Her wings are of parchment—thin, trembling, and old,
inked faintly with roads that the lost used to roam;
they quiver like letters too heavy to hold,
and settle like snow on a traveler’s home.
A candle of moonlight, no taller than breath,
burns steady beside her—no wax, only glow;
it writes in the margin the opposite of death:
a small, stubborn yes where the answer was no.
She lingers where brothers divided a field
with fences of fury and syllables sharp;
her fingertip smooths till the iron is healed,
and wheat grows again in the shape of a harp.
The letters rearrange while she hums through the night—
a city unbuilds, then rebuilds itself whole;
a widow finds laughter, a tyrant finds light,
a desert drinks mercy and blossoms in soul.
She reads of the poet who burned every line
because none were worthy of sorrow’s true weight;
the ashes rise phoenix, the verses align,
and beauty is born from the ink of regret.
Her halo is quiet—a ring of small stars
that flicker like questions too gentle to ask;
she listens, then turns to the chapter that mars
the ledger of guilt with a signature basked.
The book is a river; each word is a stone
that skips across centuries, skipping despair;
she walks on the water, and water alone
remembers the weight of the cross that she bears.
She reads of the thief who returned to the tree
and nailed back the fruit that he stole in his youth;
the page becomes orchard, the thief becomes free,
and Eden grows back in the shape of the truth.
When dawn starts to threaten the hush of her vigil,
she closes the book with a sigh like a prayer;
the spine seals shut like a wound that is civil,
and morning arrives with forgiven air.
Then, folding her wings like a scholar’s last note,
she shelves the great volume where no shadow clings;
the angel steps back, and the silence is wrote
with stories that rise on the breath of new wings.
And somewhere a stranger looks up from the dust,
smiles without reason, and offers a hand;
an angel has read him back into the trust
of mercy no ending can ever withstand.
In the hush of a dawn that has not yet arrived,
where the edge of the world is a frayed silver thread,
an angel reclines on a cloud-woven divan,
a book in her lap like a sleeping god’s head.
Its pages are rivers—ink flowing upstream,
each sentence a fish with a pearl in its mouth;
she reads with one finger dipped deep in the stream,
and the water remembers the taste of the south.
The cover is dusk, stitched with comet-tail seams,
the spine is a mountain that no one has climbed;
she opens it slowly, as one who redeems
a promise once broken by hands that were blind.
Her wings are translucent—thin membranes of light,
veined with the maps of migrations unborn;
they flutter like pages caught sudden in flight,
and settle again when the reading is sworn.
She reads of the baker who kneaded despair
into loaves that rose golden at three in the morn;
the margin grows yeast, and the air smells of prayer,
and hunger forgets it was ever forlorn.
A candle of beeswax, made soft by the sun,
burns low at her elbow—no wick, only flame;
it drips into letters that melt and rerun
into stories that never stay quite the same.
She lingers where lovers have quarreled and parted,
and traces their names till the rift starts to mend;
the ink turns to honey, the quarrel to hearted,
and endings unwrite themselves back to begin.
Her halo is quiet—a ring of small bells
that chime without sound when a sinner repents;
she listens, then turns to the chapter that tells
of debts paid in silence, of mercy unspent.
The book is a garden; each word is a seed
that blossoms in colors no spectrum has known;
she waters with starlight, she prunes with a need
to keep every petal from growing alone.
She reads of the soldier who laid down his gun
to carry a child through the smoke and the fire;
the page becomes wings, and the child becomes sun,
and war turns to ash in the breath of desire.
When thunder threatens the hush of her room,
she closes the book with a kiss on the spine;
the storm kneels outside like a penitent groom,
and rain writes forgiveness in soft anodyne.
Then, rising, she shelves it where galaxies lean
like scholars awaiting the turn of a page;
the angel steps back, and the silence is clean—
a world newly written, a debt newly paid.
And somewhere a stranger looks up from the street,
smiles without reason, and offers a hand;
an angel has read him back into the sweet
unfolding of mercy no heart can withstand.
where the edge of the world is a frayed silver thread,
an angel reclines on a cloud-woven divan,
a book in her lap like a sleeping god’s head.
Its pages are rivers—ink flowing upstream,
each sentence a fish with a pearl in its mouth;
she reads with one finger dipped deep in the stream,
and the water remembers the taste of the south.
The cover is dusk, stitched with comet-tail seams,
the spine is a mountain that no one has climbed;
she opens it slowly, as one who redeems
a promise once broken by hands that were blind.
Her wings are translucent—thin membranes of light,
veined with the maps of migrations unborn;
they flutter like pages caught sudden in flight,
and settle again when the reading is sworn.
She reads of the baker who kneaded despair
into loaves that rose golden at three in the morn;
the margin grows yeast, and the air smells of prayer,
and hunger forgets it was ever forlorn.
A candle of beeswax, made soft by the sun,
burns low at her elbow—no wick, only flame;
it drips into letters that melt and rerun
into stories that never stay quite the same.
She lingers where lovers have quarreled and parted,
and traces their names till the rift starts to mend;
the ink turns to honey, the quarrel to hearted,
and endings unwrite themselves back to begin.
Her halo is quiet—a ring of small bells
that chime without sound when a sinner repents;
she listens, then turns to the chapter that tells
of debts paid in silence, of mercy unspent.
The book is a garden; each word is a seed
that blossoms in colors no spectrum has known;
she waters with starlight, she prunes with a need
to keep every petal from growing alone.
She reads of the soldier who laid down his gun
to carry a child through the smoke and the fire;
the page becomes wings, and the child becomes sun,
and war turns to ash in the breath of desire.
When thunder threatens the hush of her room,
she closes the book with a kiss on the spine;
the storm kneels outside like a penitent groom,
and rain writes forgiveness in soft anodyne.
Then, rising, she shelves it where galaxies lean
like scholars awaiting the turn of a page;
the angel steps back, and the silence is clean—
a world newly written, a debt newly paid.
And somewhere a stranger looks up from the street,
smiles without reason, and offers a hand;
an angel has read him back into the sweet
unfolding of mercy no heart can withstand.
I.
First angel: younger,
hair the color of wheat before harvest,
wings still learning their own weight.
He stands on the tower’s lip
where stone remembers hands that laid it.
The book is open like a wound
that hasn’t decided whether to heal.
His eyes—
two small dawns
trying not to blink.
II.
Second angel: older,
hair gone the white of ash after fire,
wings folded like closed libraries.
He stands on nothing but cloud,
a rock that forgot it was earth.
The book is heavier now,
pages thick with names
that have already been crossed out.
His eyes—
two quiet graves
where questions go to rest.
III.
Between them:
a century of silence
stretched like wire.
One reads the beginning,
the other the end,
and neither looks up
to see the other
is the same face
aged by the same light.
IV.
You watch from the third floor,
fan spinning,
phone at 19%,
generator coughing below.
The angels do not see you.
They never do.
But you see them—
two mirrors
reflecting the same lie:
that height is wisdom,
that wings are escape,
that a book can hold
what a pulse already knows.
V.
Truth:
they are both you.
One before the fall,
one after.
The tower is your spine.
The cloud is your breath.
The book is your hunger.
The wings—
just the ache
to be somewhere else
while staying exactly here.
First angel: younger,
hair the color of wheat before harvest,
wings still learning their own weight.
He stands on the tower’s lip
where stone remembers hands that laid it.
The book is open like a wound
that hasn’t decided whether to heal.
His eyes—
two small dawns
trying not to blink.
II.
Second angel: older,
hair gone the white of ash after fire,
wings folded like closed libraries.
He stands on nothing but cloud,
a rock that forgot it was earth.
The book is heavier now,
pages thick with names
that have already been crossed out.
His eyes—
two quiet graves
where questions go to rest.
III.
Between them:
a century of silence
stretched like wire.
One reads the beginning,
the other the end,
and neither looks up
to see the other
is the same face
aged by the same light.
IV.
You watch from the third floor,
fan spinning,
phone at 19%,
generator coughing below.
The angels do not see you.
They never do.
But you see them—
two mirrors
reflecting the same lie:
that height is wisdom,
that wings are escape,
that a book can hold
what a pulse already knows.
V.
Truth:
they are both you.
One before the fall,
one after.
The tower is your spine.
The cloud is your breath.
The book is your hunger.
The wings—
just the ache
to be somewhere else
while staying exactly here.
The Sunday Circle