Copper Complexion

My angel has copper complexion.

In the corner of my eye, where shadow meets sun, I see the figure. Everytime. I can’t escape, nor I want to. It hangs over my daily life like a bat in the dark cave. Like it broke through the time and was cemented in a pose which doesn’t suit it.

Rusty face, surrounded by halo, it looks like corroded metal, licked by a sudden burst of light. It waits. Silently, with one hand reached out, always pleading to touch, but never touching. A mannequin made of hope and disgrace, a river full of blessed waste.

Its nails almost brush my hair and in periphery of my gaze, I see its hand, brass skin, dark faces reflecting in it. Its arm is like a water touched by the note from the depths of the earth. With souls of forgotten melted within it, looking just into me. Screaming to be let out.

Its eyes drowned in this indifferent, stale face, they are like talk with a god that decided to abandon its creation. Eyes, white blood gathering in the corners, pale blue, stark, like a moment of beautiful morning. Yet cruel, as touched by sin unspoken, darkness triumphant.

It looms over me, flickers, wherever I look. A cacophony of sound, in a silent, peaceful forest.

My angel has copper complexion.

And will be there as long as I live, hidden, like marble statue, pouring malice, feeding on me, trying to touch… trying to feel. Destined to fail, my guardian, stagnant silhouette, bathed in frail shadows.