Posted on February 23, 2018 by Nik

1 minute readFallen Angel

It’s winter – I’ve been writing a love poem for death – maybe it’s a Scorpio thing, I don’t know, but here ya go.


what heaving wings fell through the black night
spinning down to earth, hot body crouched 
in the moist ground

pressed over naked form – the beloved
crumpled wings and heart
a kiss of tenderness, longing and loss

the angel has descended, into gravity’s well
she is no more, but the density of blood, feather, bone 
upon this earth…


Youth, beauty, were fleeting. You must love this aging body, now
the slow withering, sallow skin, crumpled leaf
scuttled by the wind

there can be no relief
but the yearning, the submission
to gravity, to grief

ever portentous of 
the great beauty

Bound in eccentric orbit 
ephemeral grace, returning
to dust, slow embrace

offering a love poem
gasping, still
clinging to this body

all we have loved

yet the tearing ascent



Fly close to the source, brilliant
plenipotentiary, mesmerised
forgetful, falling, willingly

falling back, ever deeper
into earth
into love.



I wandered off the street into the Victoria & Albert Museum a while back, and found myself in the sculpture wing – drawn inextricably towards a bronze that had a numinous effect on my psyche. As I circled around it, running my hands over its form, I felt an overwhelming yet beatific sense of the embodiment of the mortal suffering of all humanity. This apparently was Rodin’s “Fallen Angel.” 

(Image created using Rodin’s Andromeda)