Fallen Angels

I can ill afford your aforementioned aphorisms
Whispers of a withering wisdom
Don’t bother to harp on my accord
Petition me to a prison
You were kept by the griffin
Though I won’t live long enough to reap the reward
Of having found Basquiat’s Crown
A dying sun and a gibbons moon
Neither are regarded as quite so profound
I put up my cocoon
Even the sky has her gown
I shudder with the thunder
These eyes are clouds
No, these eyes are storms
Only the ripe ones rise from the ground
Only inspiration’s arms keep me so warm
I struggle to find meaningful symbolism
May be the tunnel vision
Somewhere, someone’s father grew proud
And the Devil may care
And God might sigh
Blind to the sound
An angel makes on the way down…