Dead Angel

The sweet serenade that glimmers and falls,

kisses the ocean and darkens the sky.

The shadows creep along the wals,

as the breezes touch the tree tops and sigh.

 

All the daffodils have withered and gone.

All the merry singing has died.

Every blossom in the valley they moan,

where the poppy falls to the ground and hide.

 

The echo of the sad twilight flies,

if you could hear what the pines said.

The dust rising high into the skies,

whispers from ear to ear- an angel is dead.