An Ode to Muses to Kleio

Bleached Angels

She calls herself an angel,
Always wears white,
And shrouds herself in dense fog.
Her moon, she says, lives in Jupiter's orbit,
While donating parts of her soul to the first angel on Earth.
He too, wears white
And curls his hair solid to match the statues of cherubs,
Left untouched by the Romans who pulled off his arms.
My hair, lies flat,
Weighed down with the ash of a believer's candlesticks.
She likes to read the sorrows of others under this light.
My written scripture bleeds through the clutched pages,
As she wipes me away with her robes,
And gargles holy water.
I arch my back to translate ancient texts,
Written on the constellations of the cosmos,
In a religion I no longer believe in.
Call me Mercury, the messenger of the Gods.
I collect calligraphy in parcels, yet fail to deliver.
I fly backwards and create comets from these littered envelopes.
I never realized angels could fly so low,
Because I burned myself on the intensity of the sun,
In hopes, I could finally feel Icarus's warmth.
I wear black
Because my wings are already charred
And do not lose their luster if I heave them through smog.
He is the type of angel I see bathing in a fountain,
While submerging my head underwater
Because I refused to say his name in prayer.
He can swim,
Yet drags his wings across the tiles of the pool.
Mine hover over the flood and are as pristine as virgin souls,
While his collect the soot from my feathers,
As I cough liquid out of my lungs.
Hell is not hot,
Nor does it contain a woman's scorn.
An underworld as immense as the universe's womb,
That illuminates my body with the birth of each star.
My feathers contrast the diamonds of the sky,
To match the color of dark matter.
You gaze at your albino reflection,
As I bury you in an unmarked grave.
Remember that your soul is not black, but blank, like snow
And that more than just hell, freezes over.