She holds my hand and walks me home
while rabid dogs do lie,
she takes each ache, and wraps them dear
though fear, old foe, won’t die.
Her seeds of goodness, daily, sprout
she guides my heart by day,
the softest wind, she whispers me,
her sun the warmest ray.
And with this peace, I lay her tune
I sing her through the night,
oh, softness, take, me home again,
sweet angel, golden light.
***
When I believed in angels, a golden one would shine.
And I would see her face in the dark of my mind, always smiling, always soft and sweet and dear.
And she would hold me through this life, the golden one, when I was broken, lost or bruised.
I wish I still believed in angels.
I wish I still believed.
brooke-cutler.com 