In a shadow, in a corner, that the world was passing by,

I found a broken angel, who knew that she could fly.

But the world is not kind to angels,

And she wept internal tears,

Because her poised, radiant wings were tattered,

And she was trapped within her fears.

From the tenderness in her eyes, I spun a silver thread,

Then I placed it in her hand and kindly said,

“It is not for me to mend you, but to stand guard instead,

While you bind your wings of passion and dream of the sky.”

With intelligent and educated skill, she stitched herself,

To hope and courage, to things that really mattered,

And she captured my heart while she fluttered.

“It’s only infatuation,” she demurely muttered,

While the fire in her eye said it might be more than we knew,

Like the writer freely bound to the beauty of his art.

In a flash of white brilliance, she left the ground and flew,

Into the tender canyons deep within my heart,

And I hoped my broken angel would be happy flying there,

Until death do us part.