Never fall in love with angels

for Taco - in response.

Cloudlessness, a voice of forgetfulness
Where it has not yet been fulfilled;
Between the terrible wings of remembrance
I sleep to turn to angels
To this murmuring sustaining my suspicions
That things happen when we stop longing for them;
Dreaming them up instead
with my head on the space where a pillow would be
had I a mirror to lay my thoughts upon
and a likeness for a bed;
but I found myself instead in the arms of another
wishing he were my secret lover
while he would not ever be ready to be made
unlike the triturations on prescription when life is cruel
and parts fail to make sense of the All;
sleeping with angels is to
fluff up my future out of nothing yet,
half made out of my expectations
and half probably never meant to be quite ready:
that beautiful difference that makes lovers out of every you
for every me, excepting those for whom it still does not
add up.

Astounding and miraculous
but impossible to realise while tickled by vanity
-flightless afterall, with feathers for brains
and barbs for fingers with which to cling like a bat
to a wall of wails and railings with hooks for my thinking caps.
I ought to cut a nib on the shaft of message left behind,
and pen it down;
but I fear to tread where the other loves;
a rare space I crafted. That much at least,
at last,
under the auspices of those other than the you
who never came.

inspired by Sorgdrager's poem, a meditation on our comparitive freedom in the now unavailable to angels, and our as yet undefined creative potential - inviting me to ask, what shall we make? for whom? and allowing me to reaffirm, let's start with nourishing our inner child and reconnecting with our life-mission - Voedingssupplement
^{Tip: DeepL Translator for a rough but fair indication of the gist of this poem.}

^{Photo credit: A royalty free tombstone picture found here}