Fallen

This angel that flies upon heaven's clouds,
His mind will be breached with thoughts of doubt,
To curse ones wings is to curse ones very soul.

To an angel is a soul useless?
Do they need it fly? heal? or even feel?
This pressure builds to an amount and is finally too much to bear.

This immortal being then casts out his soul.
Whether it was out of curiosity and doubt or not.

The wings crumble to dust.
The body now frail and defenseless, falls down to earth.
Pain is now a constant reality for this broken being.

To wonder the earth with only pain and regret to be your guide,
This is now life.
Or has it always been that way?