The Angel - That Awkward Thought : Psychosis.

Part One.
 
I needed to write
though I haven't the words I'd like
and the  continuous silence echoes inside
my head, the mincemeat left of my mind just a merry-go-round enjoying  
the chase.
I lobotomised myself,  
at least in one of my
more psychotic turns,
and if only a few hours  
I was free from bang, bang, bang, bang.  
My dead husband upon the floor.
- But you came from your blackened ladder
and claimed you had something  
important to say, though I'm not sure I agreed.  
The silence was creating problems,
crickets making laughter in my head,
my psychosis progressing from sitting in silence
to contemplating murder.  
Your speech seemed like the key
to a broken ignition, I let you try.
 
Part Two
 
 
"Take me down by the river,
for I have never seen Hell."
you whispered
from the corners
of cracked lips,  
and looked at me with your
reddened yet pale white eyes  
and I murmured "Angels don't long for such things
but perhaps you're not entirely well."
We made love under the white wash,
and the oven-like heat
and the silence seemed  
to
eva-
por-
ate.
I kissed you after your hampering
in the home I'd previously cursed.
Years went by and not a trace of kismet or destiny but  
the nephilim arrived,
a screaming ball of waste and Heavenly matter,
your waste, my matter as my body convulsed its last
and kicked out, my heart imploding or exploding into
other organs, as if cars were in a traffic jam
living inside my rib cage. Honking. There was plenty of jam
to go around.
 
Part Three.
 
 
You knew he'd find you, you knew
he'd find you and John. Our half-baptised child.
Your God came from the sky, with one hand and  
swiped, with his wicked eye and his cane,
our child as you tried to fix me back together, with a needle and spider's thread. I was the soiled puzzle.
Your poor, chard wings flapped in the oven-like breeze,
or there lack of,
and you built a small hut out of the dirt,
in seven days,
to hide.
The psychotic silence lingered on your skin and you laughed as you had once tried
to save me.
The broken wings, upon your back, wished to cripple -
my eyes too weak to see, yet immobilized open,
lying by your bed of straw, your shrine.
Can you still hear Hell's river ripple  
against the bog, against the dirt wall?
Hell never answers anymore,
devout angels are more appetising souls
and you're left alone
in the world.  
Completely alone.