Dust doesn't bleed....

My tongue burns within their names,

their love beats still, but not the same,

The words twist and mumble together to form voices faint,

The feeling felt, weirdly, I cannot explain

But give the boy a chance, let him try and pray:

An angel of composure fell prey to uncertainty,

Feathers flocked to form the web of its misery,

Once told, the angel was wise beyond his years,

took a leap forward to fall underneath all his peers

All his maturity disappeared suddenly, 

It knew where to go, what route to take,

flames of faggotry didn’t make it shake,

It came so far, but its bloodline took an oath back,

My name lingers, unspoken, misplaced,

A ghost in the halls where I was once embraced.

Am I the fool, or have they changed?

Was I wise, or just well-behaved?

The angel stares at a home now blurred,

Letters unread, voices unheard.

They speak in whispers, cautious, confined,

As if distance unravelled the threads of my mind

Striving in its flight, it crashes into clouds of epiphanies,

The rain it used to love, crashes across its face relentlessly,

No hands to be held, the wings’ soul had to survive,

prayed for family, but no blood it could see for miles,

There is blood to shed, but blood to cherish,

have it too much to loose, you might perish

You see, a child cries when knuckles bleed, 

But isn’t it his essence inherently 

for if in your blood, you find your gods, your ancestors,

Are they your protectors, or are they mere protestors

But is it something that ties us together, or is it a bluff?

is family bound by blood merely, or is love enough?

The angel never knew what blood had to be,

Was it something to be felt or something to be seen,

It had heard that once blood is to be seen,

One had to make a call for help or even scream,

But no, not weep, it's not what the family preached,

But lost in the haze of the sky’s misery, could it ever be found?

They say peace drifts in the abyss, yet it wonders—when will it meet the ground?

cloud droplets were they any different than the teardrops across it’s face,

Both in essence different, but still hurt the same.

face tainted with bruises, it innately feels blood’s to be felt,

But as it feels the sting across its cheek, falling with hope withheld,

expecting warmth, a rush of blood to trace its path,

it’s met with dust—gritty, dry, a fading aftermath.

The blood that should have tied,

a bond to hold, to guide,

was nowhere to be found,

just ashes drifting down.

The family had once said,

in moments of dread,

Blood would rise, would show,

mark you where you’d go.

But as the dust settled,

it knew something was unsettled—

The connection, once so grand,

was nothing more than shifting sand.

No warmth, no fire, no pulse to feel,

just dust—no love to heal.

A binding force was what it sought,

but in the end, it was dust it got.

The peripheral at times caught a sight,

other pieces of heaven in descent by its’ side,

it would think normality were to be settled by now,

Hoping if blood was absent, dust was to be found

but the sky seemed to be filled with variations

droplets, dust, blood, each held different palpitation

so, where family was to be seen and adored,

it felt as if everyone was merely hoping to be found,

seen, as if, their angelic physicality was deemed invisible,

Immortality we all hoped for, pity we forgot that we were once invincible, 

so existence doesn’t seem to be marked by family

more so it is embraced by death and tragedy

hence, it took no heed that it had dust,

for if blood ran through its’ cuts,

it would’ve hurt far more,

Death would have carried the weight of lore,

it would have meant that it had something to loose,

life wouldn’t have offered you who to choose,

it is said that to die is an art,

but if the angel never held a canvas to start,

would the art still hold love and resistance?

or would it be an empty page of distilled existence,

one must see, Blood runs deep but dust sheds, 

so blood might pain, but dust spreads.

So the angel remains—uncertain, lost—is blood the tether, or is dust a chosen cost?

angel feels confined in the endless sky, 

knows when it meets the ground, it dies

but without the meaning of death,

some become bugs drowned in mud’s rest,

some hold the form of ashes lost in the sea’s chest,

wandered are the notions thy believe in,

so much to believe, but who would it put its faith in,

no religion, no god, no blood, no loss,

encounters such met, pass like sand,

family, a term unknown to Angel’s hand

so, what would death count for it?

It's an angelic culture, blood won’t shed, dust will.

Thus, riddle me this for a haunted angel’s life

who is to say what’s more peaceful of a demise

death with loss or death with lack of its’ ties?

Immortality is a fallacy, even through an angel’s fallen eyes,

A children’s movie, drawn in shades of black and white.

Does an angel have limbs, or live only by its wings?

The moment it touches the earth, something about it shifts.

It doesn’t necessarily die, but it isn’t certainly alive,

Its eyelids shutter to find this limbo of mankind,

The dust is gone, but blood now stains the scene.

It realizes those wings were only a hypocrite’s dream.

It tries to move its freshly found limbs,

Hostile is this pain that slowly dims,

But how can it effortlessly move and talk,

If no one ever taught it how to walk.

You see, It is everywhere—ubiquitous and unseen.

No one is unique, just a paper in a longer piece,

Maybe that’s what blood changed:

Made you believe that dust was what remained, 

The truth beneath, what time had stained.

It gave you wings to soar where angels sing,

Only for life to halt mid-dream's swing.

Everyone was once an angel, floating on cloud nine,

Never asking how—or why it could be fine.

Then one day, we crash and hit the ground,

And realise blood was the truth we found.

Maybe if I'd seen this before,

I’d have known how to walk and speak evermore.

Maybe if dust hadn’t choked my soul,

I would have learned to rise, to make me whole

For now, I crawl with my shattered wings, 

hoping someone would hear wretched me sing

To lift me up, and teach me right,

And guide me through the endless night.

A microcosm of existence I might be,

A fragment of what was, of what will be.

A whispered echo in the vast unknown,

A story carried through time, alone.

But those souls that carry my tainted me,

And shed all the dust off me,

That’s what my blood is to be

and that’s what will be my family tree,

And when they shed me, maybe they’ll see—

I was never an angel, just a broken prophecy.