a fallen angel stands
among us all
tattered and torn
from wind and rain
walking in the shoes
once worn by me

dancing, with the images that fly by
she catches ideas like stars from the sky
tumbling, as she rolls down-hill
she smells the fruitful blossoms bloom
singing, a tune that has no words
the beat still goes on within the air

and at last
before she heads home
she looks upon me
smiling
for she now knows
what life is like


"Poetry isn't an art, it's a way of Life." -Erin 88