The Angel

I hover by a dark abyss
And every now and then
As I near and swing away, it infects
Me with its breath, its
Spots of black
Which grow of their own accord
And blight spreads.

Soon my wings will be
Sordid with filth, with the
Touch of that unclean air
Those growths, the disease will touch
My skin, furring.

Then the stains will seep
Inward, sucking and blotting
Towards the core
Till I in all parts
Am ill

With the stench of rot.
A sickness of colour
Will corrupt all valour
And goodness.  Every shade of white
And all my clear blooms

Susceptible
To its worms
And that black staining
Will weigh me down
Till the washing air around
Slows and stills and beating
Falters.  Dimming above that dark edge

I will certainly
Fall.

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