Stripped Sunset

Fallen angels make for a pretty metaphor
but they were useful only before
and today we find ourselves
laid as old books in dusty shelves.

Worn out and tired, bitter in the end
A story that scrapes the skin as if made of sand.
Our bleeding knees are on the floor,
The father figure is at the door.

If one day we can make our escape,
Relegating all that we once knew and once had,
Burning the mattress as we lay on the bed,
My sweet butterfly, I fear we might
die.