Half an hour later, I had this.
The angel has a problem with her wings.
She's joining the eternal choir that sings.
Too many left-hand feathers, too few right
At this rate she'll be working half the night
sorting them into piles, turning them round
sewing them to her shoulders once she's found
the veins she must not prick. Her needle's sharp.
She must work faster. On the wall her harp
strums in impatience. Then there is the pain
angels endure. Screaming her hymns again,
She stretches what were once her shoulder blades
now pulled out into wings. Her eyesight fades
to dizzy and to black. This agony
she hopes to forge into eternity.
Not quite up to Rilke, I fear...But certainly another reason why every angel is terrible.