Stricken Angel
The air is clearer up here
can almost taste it,
heaven knows..
just above the stair
where skeins of rope-like hair
lie still
festering..
all in neat rows.
Why was it to be? cast down, why?
Here where they don't dream
of flying or understand
the simple rites..
the good in dying.
Years now I wallow among them,
though the forest still knows me.
Trying a smile on, first in eons
the rivers too..
they remember 'fore the dark modesty
the arches in light and artistry..
There'll come a time Lazarus..,
Aye,
when they won't heed
or recognize
nor longer find need
in us.
And all the clocks unchimed
will turn back to begin
again...
Copyright © Quoth Theraven | Year Posted 2022
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