Young angels
plucked from beds,
and draped in Gucci.

Wings clipped before they
even knew they could fly,
reduced to perfect
camera captured
catwalk steps.

Shoulders forward,
pelvis forward,
eyes forward.

Do not fear death,
fear is death.

In every moment that we dream
we are immortal.

The angels are beautiful
but they are no more than
air brushed pictures
of ourselves.

Their image will be intact
when we have turned to dust.

Do not envy their immortality.
We are infinitely more alive
than they will ever be.


Photograph by fervent-adepte-de-la-mode


Lucas Howard

When I was seven I started copying poems out of a book and telling people they were mine. When I ran out of good ones to copy, I had to start writing my own. I have been performing and organising nights on the UK spoken word scene now for over seven years and am most of the way through writing the first draft of my first novel 'Zedlist', which is serialised on here. As the story is in fetal form, any critiques or suggestions are most welcome.

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