The Press of Angels

Every day I mourn my losses.
They do not mourn me back
nor do I expect them to,
For I feel unlovable as I am.

Emptied out of love,
I hang around the block
of this stained and sinning world
of selfishness.
The growling dogs and dirty
curs of companionship
don’t even want me around.

Nevertheless I am
filled up with angels
pressing against my
chest and purring like
engines revving to
take me up higher,
higher and higher.

Vicki Woodyard

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