The Helper
The dying sun sets,
bringing with it, the end of another day.
The air begins to cool,
as the "children" come out to play.
They dance and talk,
at home in their world of the dark.
A place in which we hide,
so that no one can find.
I, myself, is there,
at home in their realm.
With these wings that are broken,
and his heart no longer part of the worldly realm.
They circle around me,
grateful for the help that I give.
Not hearing my silent plea,
to give up and to no longer live.
The more I help,
the the better I should feel.
But that backfires on me,
and only remind me of the pain I continually feel.
But these eyes no longer feel,
the cool touch of tears.
Like these wings which lie broken,
tainted black with the pain of heartbreak.
But this angel is too proud to stop,
using his pain to move on.
Riminding others to do the same,
to continue to play in Life's game.
The night travels on,
the air cool to the naken skin.
But compared to the harsh light of day?
Starlight is much better anyway.
We mill around and peak,
aiding each other to continue on.
Hoping that we will hear our own words,
and continue with what left of our lives.
I hope that someone will hear my plea,
before my dark friends open the paper.
And there in the obituaries,
there's me in one of the picture.
The dying sun sets,
bringing with it, the end of another day.
The air beings to cool,
as the "children" come out to play.
