The angel stands at the far wall of your room. His face is stoic, as with the rest of him: his chest doesn't move with breath, and his eyes don't vary from your own. His hands are the only parts of him that move, forming shapes and patterns, inscribing words of a long-forgotten tongue on the air.
His wings, large and powerful, are lined with even rows of giant, creamy white feathers. They protrude from his back, with an immeasurable grace. The bases of the wings are swathed in thick ropes of muscle unknown to human bodies. Every time you look, his wings are folded, loose but unmoving.
You're used to him, now. In the beginning, you'd been shocked and embarrassed of the always present figure. Now, though, you feel only the sense that he is a guardian; a companion, of sorts.
He follows wherever you go. In your bedroom: standing at the wall. Into town: always just around the corner. Into work or school: waiting, watching, outside the window. But always invisible to everyone but you.
He doesn't speak during the day. The only time he does is at night, as you're slipping into unconsciousness. His lips form nearly silent words, smooth and low in the darkness. He speaks of purpose and of hope. He speaks of Earth's wonders and secrets. He speaks of the fragility of mankind, and astounding resiliency.
Here, now, as you gaze with lidded eyes at your ceiling, his voice fills the room. His lips form hushed stories of angels' haloes, and their brilliant glow and unfathomable power.
He murmurs comforts that swirl through your soul, filling your veins with a heavy, addictive warmth. Your bones feel as if they're melting into your mattress, sinking you down,
down,
down,
into
slum
b
e
r
.
.
.
YOU ARE READING
Twisted Dreams
PoetryA collection of short stories, poems, and half-written ramblings. ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 dream \ ˈdrēm \ 1 : a series of thoughts, visions, or feelings that happen during sleep ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 night·m...
