The Paper Angels- A poem.

I go about cutting,
but it does not hurt me.

It’s my way of speaking
up. Squeeze the scissors

The paper whispers
against the blades. Shadows dart
around on the blank page—
a tiny sparrow and a bobbing head,
an old tree dropping
its leaves.

The paper is an abandoned life:
the scissors slicing between.

Paper angels falls about
my feet like they were poached
from heaven.

God, who I have not heard in years,
spoke ten words:

“If you’re a real ghost,” he says,
“cutting paper is beneath you.”

Why do my words appear so suddenly,
written, even before
I cut them,

as the paper angels stretch
to reach their torn off wings?

Featured Image by Eugene Peretz under Creative Commons.

Categories: poetry

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