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
gently.

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.

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Categories: poetry

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