Angels circle above me in ever-decreasing circles
Or crows, or bats, for their forms are in shadow.
I pray for the former, though expect the latter,
Otherwise, it would be some sick kind of sick joke, wouldn’t it?
I don’t think I deserve that; though maybe I do?
I’m not a good man. I know that without asking.
I’m a bad man with bad ways from a bad place.
But I dream of good in between my failings.
I dream of smiles and people being nice;
Of children with ice creams and pensioners walking puppies,
They all play in a wonderful park looking to clear blue skies.
Somehow, though, with unerring certainty, my mind slips to you,
And all the bad thoughts float to the surface;
All the narrow eyed glaring, distrust and dismay;
All the shaken heads and things thrown in the air
Well, like angels, or crows, or bats,
It all depends on the light and your viewpoint.