Poetry by Claire L. Smith
An Angel's Asylum
The frozen stones preserved her body,
Her limbed wings collapsed beside her,
Withered and speckled with holes,
After a battle lost and sacrificed.
Her cell fed her oblivion,
The darkness seeping into her skin,
Thinning her bones,
Draining the rose in her cheeks.
A steel bowl waited by the bars,
A poisoned gruel to keep her heart beating,
A drug to swallow and exhaust it.
A cruel trick to keep her in place.
With a skeleton of broken bones,
She slid across the blistered floor,
Her wings dragging behind her.
Her cape of purity now her chains.
The gruel churned her stomach,
It choked her as it travelled down her throat,
Suffocating until any sob was forced down with the gruel,
Stripping her of her voice and another row of feathers.
Above her lay the star,
A lone sequin in a smothering veil of black,
She watched it travel across the horizon,
Beckoning in its journey.
The star passed into her eyes,
Piercing with a contesting glint,
Even as the gruel pinned her to the ground,
And her wings a weight on her shoulders.
With a pit-throat scream,
Her wings snapped open,
Hovering over the gritty floor,
Swooning at the sweet light above.
Tears dotted her eyes,
The fear a crippling chokehold.
Still, her wings bent,
Gathering a spirited wind with a single push.
The frozen stones preserved her body,
Her limbed wings collapsed beside her,
Withered and speckled with holes,
After a battle lost and sacrificed.
Her cell fed her oblivion,
The darkness seeping into her skin,
Thinning her bones,
Draining the rose in her cheeks.
A steel bowl waited by the bars,
A poisoned gruel to keep her heart beating,
A drug to swallow and exhaust it.
A cruel trick to keep her in place.
With a skeleton of broken bones,
She slid across the blistered floor,
Her wings dragging behind her.
Her cape of purity now her chains.
The gruel churned her stomach,
It choked her as it travelled down her throat,
Suffocating until any sob was forced down with the gruel,
Stripping her of her voice and another row of feathers.
Above her lay the star,
A lone sequin in a smothering veil of black,
She watched it travel across the horizon,
Beckoning in its journey.
The star passed into her eyes,
Piercing with a contesting glint,
Even as the gruel pinned her to the ground,
And her wings a weight on her shoulders.
With a pit-throat scream,
Her wings snapped open,
Hovering over the gritty floor,
Swooning at the sweet light above.
Tears dotted her eyes,
The fear a crippling chokehold.
Still, her wings bent,
Gathering a spirited wind with a single push.
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Claire L. Smith is a creative writer, poet and essayist from Victoria, Australia. She is a mix-breed of vampire and witch, and is obsessed with Edgar Allan Poe. Her work centred around gender equality and encouraging women has been featured in MookyChick.com.
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