Missed Connections in Toronto
Angels….
Angel of Death by Primrose Prints
Out here we come to grieve or thieve
from the plight of others and ourselves
be they meek and weak or big and strong
the paradoxes still remain
at times it is right now,
others can’t let go of a time past
be it maligned or sin
out here we remain anonymous
but still locked in
that dark place that hides our face
and our eyes that shield the ghost within
we are the castaways, the forgotten
we are angels without wings.
Her Two Cents
This dark, Gothic poem from Toronto brings to mind images of old crumbling statues, well-manicured cemeteries with few visitors, and closed windows and creeping moss of silent Victorian houses. Places of dim light can hold secrets, can hold sadness, can simply be waiting for the light of day to return.
