My Cherubim

He is but a beautiful dream
A canvass of white, burgundy gold
A royal tapestry of hues
A magnificent weaving of old
He, yet remains to be aloft
In his Nirvana, his own to love
He sees me, though, insignificant
The hourglass of life, running out of sand.
He smiles as though uncared for by the world
He speaks as though none listens
He dreams, so very often, of she in the stars
He fails to catch glimpse of the angel, her heart
He sleeps, dreams, awakens.
He has soothed my restless being
He, I regret, shall never understand
For he remains blind of what the angel offers him.
Too many are involved, all are intertwined
In the end, the angel shall be his,

Solace the angel shall find.