An angel? Not me

For who would be an angel anyway?

I do know, and freely admit

Those hands you feel, they speak

So softly with the tender intimacy of fallen angels

Descending the depths of passions lair

Velvet words, a covering to lay beneath

Inhaling, thorny guilt

Appealingly so aromatic, to the heart

Honeysuckle, fresh with morning dew, does not smell as sweet

Compellingly passion goes on

Angels cannot hold back the fever

It would be easier to catch a fleeting smile in the hand

A moonbeam in daylights glare

For who would be an angel anyway?