The Crooning Dove

Effigy formed of inert dust, Inhaled the divine pulse, vile vine Infused with worth and dignity. I'm not! I'm not! Fallen from grace; I frown at my rueful bungle. Sad to strut, my honor swishes Shame; dark crusted conscience Hangs on me; keeps paling my worth Till I yell at Christ's open arms For return of the gone glory, So dear, the present, a shadow. Years in the fire, self-refining, Yielded scum, dross, a dull shine. If I should have another chance, Revert to the noble state I'd lost, My heart could be tanned rainbow. A dove cranes on a perch, offset Against the blue, croons in the wind, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? Yet I battle with baneful pride, Scorn the grace, the courting nocturne. No end to my nice now, I wow. Quite unequalled, I'll ever be. The bell tolls for others, each time Softer; the whir of a whirling world. The sun keeps her scoot; stars, their stroll. Summer smiles; winter whines, sulks. Time etches against my proud form. The bell! Sounds like tolling closer— Jangling, ruffling... nettling. Yet my pride... my pride sticks, Lances the chance to begin again. © 2015 Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi