My neighbour is an angel.
I can hear her wings flutter
at night, her celestial voice
harmonising with the thrum
of the universe.

Each morning I open my door
and see a trail of silver
angel-dust leading from
her house to mine – I feel blessed,
touched by her heavenly presence.

But no – that is a lie.
She is a fallen angel,
one of Lucifer’s legions,
condemned to an earthly existense.
Her feathers droop dejectedly,
her voice a demonic croak
at odds with heaven and humanity.

Each morning I open my door
to the stench of sin.

Bill Fitzsimons

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