The Angel.

His tears are not silver,
They aren't made of gold,
His tears are Crystal clear,
They're blood from his soul.

His wings once pure and white,
Are now but nothing more,
covered with dirt and dust,
and riped right to the bone.

By all rights, and by all means,
Hes should dead as well,
But this angel he hold on to,
The love that he once felt.

He doesn't pray to god above,
For he knows very well,
That he can not return home,
Until the jobs done well.

Hes almost broken, Almost done,
Almost given up,
Hes holding onto a love so strong,
Of play fights in the dark.

A simple smile, a simple laugh,
A kind word here and there,
Is all he need to be alive,
Heaven it can wait.

Hes been to heaven knows it well,
Hell hes been there too,
But hes been sent here for you,
Hes looking after you.

You have an angel here with you,
Not many can say that,
Hes here until you smile again,
I won't leave until then.