Solace

There will be no solace
in sudden eternal sleep
for my angels who’ve grown weary
by the hand of a subtle menace.
In the face of the same
flower-crusted tyrant,
I have had a sallow want
for my bleeding hands upon the floor,
not caring if ever they are uplifted anymore.
My angels have strung the strands of light
that separate such hands as mine,
stuck to the barren floor,
and set them toward the ceiling
able to restore.
My wish would be as quick
to brush me from the face of this entirely
than to forget me the ways of stringing light
into the hearts of angels; no less
angels that are mine as whether
they’re aware or not,
They tread the same
illusive floor.