A Picture paints a thousand words
Time has run out, the clock no longer ticks
Who lies beneath the weeping angel?
The stone etched name, faded, lost to history
I look upon her weeping form, her personal story aching to be told
Her face too young for tears so painful
Her beautiful hair is folded back, like wings that no longer fly
Yet there is a deep need to spread them, to be lifted once more
To reach home, warmth, comfort, a safe place to be.
I found myself wishing she could open her eyes
Are they blue, brown, or green with shards of light?
Would I fall in love, would her voice be soft, laced with music?
I didn’t come here to fall in love with a stone angel
I could hear her heart beating from a long distance
Her need to tell me about her…
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