[Quick introduction – the poem below stems from a prompt I saw, titled “Where Do Angels Fear To Tread?“. I was bored. So, this happened. I uploaded it elsewhere, but then I realised that I haven’t done an update here in quite a while, so, I’m cheating. Enjoy!]
“Papa, what are angels?”, I heard my daughter ask.
Let me tell you of the people for whom time does not pass.
You have heard of the folk that walk through time,
The Fae, the sprites, those immortal enemies of mine.
I have told you stories of kingdoms long past,
They rose, and they fell, with few traces that last.
Yet of all that was left,
And of all that was found,
It is the dead who told of where angels do tread.
I ask you, my darling, and consider it well;
Of what fate we warned, and yet always befell?
Millennia have passed, and what was revealed –
Valhalla, Olympus, The Land of Two Fields.
Our ancestors told of us of where we might go,
Gave us hope, gave us answers, gave us warnings and though
We say we are ready (and oh! what a lie that is.)
I am here, unprepared, for where mortals stay dead.
You asked me, my love, what angels are.
In truth, I know not – I know nothing so far.
I can guess, I can hope, I think they are unchanged,
From the tales our people gave from their graves.
For angels, my dear, are gods out of time.
They live with us, beyond us, and care not what we do.
If you were immortal – well, girl, would you?
I am human, my heart, as are we all.
We fear, we love, we die – we fall.
We are mortal, my sweet, we have one life to live.
It is our fear that helps us to grow, to live.
So where do these ‘angels’ fear to tread?
Nowhere. They walk with the living dead.
[Done! It’s a bit depressing, I’ll admit, but that’s all I could wring out of my brain in an hour. What do you think?]
(Image taken from: https://www.istockphoto.com/in/photos/angel-walk-through-forest)