a fallen angel

She admits, under the hush of a silvered moon,
that she fears the mortal coil—
its tangle of roses and thorns.

She, who once danced on the edge of stars,
now walks the earth with a weight,
a gravity of longing in her steps.

Her wings, hidden beneath the cloak of night,
whisper of a heaven she can no longer touch,
not with these fingertips that crave the warmth of another.

She speaks of love, a foreign lexicon—
once just a concept, now a pulsing desire
in the chambers of her celestial heart.

Her laughter, once the bell toll of cosmic winds,
now a melody strung across the lines of human connection,
a symphony played in the key of imperfection.

She moves through the world, a specter of grace,
yet stumbles over the cobblestones of doubt,
each step an echo of eternity's question.

The angel watches the sun dip below the horizon,
a golden orb sinking into the sea of time,
and wonders if her soul, too, will set with the tides.

She is a paradox wrapped in the enigma of flesh,
a seraphic being learning the dance of decay,
the rhythm of days that pass and cannot be reclaimed.

Her immortality, once a crown of stars,
now a chain that binds her to the endless sky,
while she yearns for the finite, the taste of a tear.

In her eyes, the reflection of the human odyssey—
a journey through the labyrinth of laughter and loss,
where each turn reveals the map of her own transformation.

This angel, draped in the shroud of humanity,
fears not the fall but the flight without end,
the ascent into an infinity speckled with the dust of souls.

She is the weaver of time, the bearer of light,
yet in her heart, the shadow of man—
a tapestry of desires, woven with threads of twilight.