The Angels Are Crying

Now they weep as the wind moans with them. The leaves hastily retreat; the flowers hang their heads in shame. Their tears drench all we've treasured, thrown away, take for granted. The sky dresses itself for their mourning; a blanket of grey. Smouldering clouds take command, an out pour of tears. Tears from the ones who have done all they could to heal, mend, and reach out to those in suffering. Even angels can't take so much disaster, as they take our pain with them, up where grief is nonexistent. Or so I'm taught.
"It's just a little rain." 

Was my mother's response when she noticed the tears creep out of my eyelids. At seven years old, thunderstorms were mother nature's worst threat. Roaring winds and violent rainfall nearly inaudible to my screaming. The belief in God, angels, and coexistence of good and evil, which I would be forced to take hand on in years to come. All that mattered now was someone out there was making these terrible pitches, and there was nothing I could do about it.
"Why are they angry?" 

Raging gusts assassinate any life they manage to find. The hand of a child can't calm a beast like the one that charges outside; creeping into my nightmares, keeping me unable to get a wink for hours on end as I cry out longer, waiting for the sound to cease. The sound of heartbreak and undergone misery deludes my mind and goes right past me; in my picture perfect fantasies I don't take the slightest hint of a shattered world in need of healing. 

"Why are they sad?" 

My eyelids fold to their gentle weeping as my never ending pondering keeps me awake. I used to play in their puddles, collections of cold, winter tears. Ice formed around it's edges when the air chilled. Mother would be irate in her knowing I was still awake. With the door ajar, the most I could do right here, and right now, was have this moment of silence, to those who wept and continue to mourn on earth today. 

I feared for my life when my mother swung open the door, saw that I wasn't in my bed asleep. I had disobeyed; crept outside, in my pajamas, let the cold air hurt me, mud now tainted my tangled hair and bare feet. Horrified at the sight of her seven year old out in the calm of a storm, droplets of rain now just sprinkled from a night sky. I couldn't say a word, for she didn't know what I knew.

"The angels are crying." 

They visit me in my terrors when the moon is a bright in the sky, revealing itself when the storm has calmed as I did myself, in knowing they have to be smiling now.