Church Mouth

I am as advantageous as a wishing well,
as stoic as a dream in Hell;
festered up with love and metal faces,
an aspiring child's hope and silver pieces,
but though they bar themselves from speaking secrets
I will always let them down.

My lost affection was chained to an angel disguised;
A prophet who fell from an open, hallowed sky
remaining upon the beach in throes with the swells,
her heart beating in time with those majestic bells,
and from out her lips, spinning stories, she tells
of Arcadia.

Long she stayed on the blazing, sand knolls
speaking sometimes in old, stone, cathedral tones,
and I asked her on what principle an aerial could decide
to fall from the gates; to deviate from the divine?
And that fleeting Seraph looked me dead in the eye,
Lying - she said she didn't know.

It always smelled of sugar plums,
long run-on days; skin cancer from the sun.
We spent years inside the ocean's salty touch,
and when the sea became too rough
we climbed the shores, covered up,
and she sang dirges to the tide.

With delicacy those funeral songs were sent and swallowed up;
From those many coffin tales blistered growing seeds of love,
but when the dam broke on the world, everything succumbed to flood,
God's scorn all impacting, retracting, taking back my Angel from above.
So,

I am as advantageous as a wishing well,
as broken as a stuttered death knell
and Dante claims all Poets go to Hell,
but I think we all go there,
just in different ways -
just on different days -
but especially on those summer nights
when we bury angels in the rain.