Angels (Where He Truly Shines), not fallen! But excluded—by wings we ourselves have clipped...
Author: D’Bara Arruda

Angels do not fly — they walk with short steps among us.
Many survive,
others merely exhale a breath of life,
or dare the fragile luxury
of gazing, for an instant, at the halo of those who brought them into light,
before fading in a deep sigh
or having their diagnosis
filed away like a sentence.

— And how many cherubs in wheelchairs
have we stoned with our silence?

There are guardians we reject
for not bending to our maps.
For not mirroring us (we say with pupils dripping disdain).
Oh! How insane to call them “special” —
as if our normality were not the poison
that consumes them. (And so another angel falls.)

Angels of torn-up manuals,
who read the world in tongues
we call “symptom”.

And those, so evolved,
who dance between murky and clear puddles,
intoxicated by the world’s impure nectar,
yet whose skin sweats pure water — A bottle on the table.
“What table?” — the one where
State and Big Pharma dine,
feasting on gourmet profits soaked in “tears of atypical parents.”
Nom, nom, mmm “Succulent”
while the State murmurs between bites — 'Hypocrites!' —
and glances condescendingly
towards the crumb-covered floor:
— Them? Ah yes, the invisible guards,
those who balance the scales,
walking the sharp edge of ridicule,
defying castes... (smothered laughter)

— That’s all that escapes through clenched teeth,
a crooked detour to eclipse the prejudice
that insists on labelling the sacred
as “disorder”, and the natural
as “syndrome”.

Have you ever stopped to wonder
what they truly think of us?

Angels!
I have one.
I see many.
And I know now that under their wings
— not ours —
rests the only chance
of redemption.

To my beloved Dayane,
“the angel who topples our light
and with it, our pseudo-normality crumbles.”