Still, for the work of a few moments, I think the story, at least, will please her:
“It’s not fair,” she said,
and she was right.
For god had made her a wild angel,
with wind-torn wings still smoking
from flying too close to the sun,
(or was it too close to that old devil?)
Yet her death-defying dazzle met
only the stony stare of an impassive audience,
sitting solemnly on cold white clouds,
not a drop of wine on their pristine garments.
Is it any wonder she was slowly being seduced
by the gentle whisperings of the demons below?