devils, and angels

is this what you’d have of me?
tho we’ve learned– each time
judgment’s dented axe swings
its rust-speckled murder
there is a lessening
and is this what we’ve become?
of all the rustle we’d once been
hideous, and beautiful
if there be any difference
devils, and angels
if there be any distinction
now cleaved, and bleeding
dismembered, our imperfection
our sharp edges, smoothed
our perilous burrs, removed
all of our humanness, sacrificed
dulled– our passion
interred– our anger
tho still, it writhes
and tho I can nearly remember
when warm crimson brushes against
a pallid sky
gifting forgiviness
those parts us, unloved
those pale frailties
forsaken– given unto
love’s hungering black-hole-god
diminished, cut away
until we’d become vague effigies
faceless rogues
dressed in robes of gray
aye, until we’d disappeared
lost children of wilderness
tho on those red-moon nights
when the white owls call
and the black wolves howl
we might again hear
the dim voices whispering
our ancient names
show me a saint
show me a sage
show me a thing, holy
aye, compassion’s divinity
only this, being worthy
our bent-knee worship
and on that day, I shall acquiesce

“Art is never finished, only abandoned.” – Leonardo da Vinci
as is poetry..