Is it not a profession to make worried minds?
To make downtrodden souls and heavy hearts?
Each day brings more guilt than the next.
In yet, the broken angels are still amidst
my manufactured chaos.
Even with torrential storms and hissing winds,
their wings still let them hover over me.
They carry tools to repair my soul,
while their hearts remain broken.
They move astray of their own paths
to make sure I stay on mine.
I rest my burdens upon them,
as if weights are attached to their wings,
making gravity work to pull them towards the Earth.
How far down will I bring them,
until I cut their chains and set them free?
Free from me.