An Angel

The loss of an artist and the performance. The theatre is in ashes, barren. The only thing that rises is the smoke that smothers the lungs.The picture is remorseless but thoughtful subdued by the thick air around it. It is quick and sharp.An angel fallen from the sky, wings clipped, unable to blossom. The blissful ignorant is damned to hell for eternity.It’s an art form, aesthetic. A picture indescribable with a thousand words, so hard to comprehend yet so pleasant to watch. The comprehension lies in its subtleties which overwhelms its defining moments.The answer to everything. The question need not be asked. It’s a crime not to appreciate, murder. To ignore it is to be blind. The skin might as well rot; the birds might as well stop singing, no fragrant flowers. Your senses are rendered impaired and numb.It is a climatic change. You feel it. It is when the sun shines or the heavens open through the light showers. It’s a mixed contrast in a complete package.