Come for Comfort

Walking,
bare feet slapping cool concrete,
I notice,
in an abscess in the clouds,
in the infection streaming through,
the form of
the
Life taker
the
Death bringer
the
Angel of unthinkable, unspeakable thoughts

Staring upward
as the image imprinted
on the backs of my eyes
I knew
He did not come for me,
and,
That did not comfort me.

His scythe raised above his head
as he rushed in for the harvest,
my eyes were glued to the shifting lighting
and ever knowing

He does not come for me.

A man and woman crossed my path
discussing philosophy
"Care not so much what other's think,"
 but that does not comfort me.

Progressing now,
the painted clouds
mutate forms again.
The body of the angel fades
and night begins its slow descent.
Still, I worry for my friend.

There is the fact that I would rather know
than live in mystery.

I knew he did not come for me
and still that did not comfort me.