his hand drooping
from the top step
of course over
the top step be
cause where else could
he have fallen?
his legs crumbled
beneath his stioll
form, reverent
as if in prayer
the chapel in
the background lit
eerily with
the light of God
and heaven, bright
against the dark
blood, spilling like
a slow water
fall down the steps
his wing, ripped from
his back, lies cold
beside him, red
on pure white light
fallen, of course
from the heavens
for what else could
be so cruel?
his wing, torn from
his bleeding back
cold and certain
for, of course, one
winged angels can
not ever fly.