Crimson Wings

Is it impossible to find hope,
When there is a steeple next door?
In a world that holds so little,
Do we know what we are living for?

I thought I had found my reason,
Than she shut the door.
Perhaps it is not the fact that she closed the door,
That makes it bother me so.
It’s the fact that the window is open,
And she continues to talk to me so.

Perhaps if I turn and walk away,
She will believe the empty lie.
That everything is ok,
And not see that I now want to die.

These wings are tired of them clipping,
Everyone that I have tried helping.
These same wings that are stained black,
From the pain that always come back.

Why are people content with pain?
The ones that they bear and deal?
Am I their only source,
Because I am the only one that feels?

If only they could see the ground around me,
That my crimson continues to turn.
These scars that cover my chest,
For the continuing emotion, I yearn.

God, is it too much to ask?
That you forgive an angel that fell?
That I might be able to finish,
The world that has become my task.

My heart has gone from the work,
Taken by someone somewhere behind me.
And now I stand here alone,
With nothing more than the rain around me.

The rain that washes down,
Taking with it the pain that is not all my own.
For yes, I have taken on the pain of others,
But it has only increased my own.

This forest clearing in which I now stand,
I will make this my last.
Though the body has gone away,
To a desert land, to return I pray.

The angel stands here in the clearing,
Water dripping from its spread wings.
Much like the crimson that streams,
Down his face and chest, unseen.