Cathedral Gates

This fortnight's contribution to the writers' circle. I've been working for days on this, but there's something missing from it, and I can't put my finger on what...


Angels are just Gods and Goddesses in waiting.
Divine spirits of the skies concealed from view;
hidden behind faerie dust gates as strong as wrought
iron. The heavens are so close you can taste them

as you sleep, but only the chosen will ever become
enchanted into their chaotic disarray. When does
faith transcend into reality; when lyrical powers
can be tasted in the back of your senses? It's

like the audible corrosion of the flickering,
fluttering wings of a lithium moth - isolated from
touch or sight, but you know it's there. Belief is
archaic, but no one knows its impact until they've

lay draped against the cathedral steps like an
oyster shell swept upon a frostbitten shore. That night,
with kohl stained cheeks and hypothermic flesh, she
prayed to the skies to illuminate to her a path to

sanctuary, but barely exorcised the faintest syllables
from her blackened lungs. Chilled to her core and frozen
in equilibrium; her only warmth and ivory comfort exuded
from the emerald ring hanging around her pretty neck...