Angels and Architecture
Are we not blind-registered children,
tripping over our future tails?
Sight unseen enabled
for the will of night prevails.
Within the cone of silence
curve the angles formed obtuse,
at odds and plainly hidden
in the shade of the recluse.
Feeling numb along the crumbled brick,
cement and mortar Braille;
callused lesions blunt the tips
and rip out the fingernail.
If opened to accommodate
the scope of love's domain,
the arc-light blinds so fiercely
slamming eyes wide shut again.
And all the time in brilliance shine
their halos fired intense,
yet we, enslaved to self denial
reject the evidence.
For the sake of nothing ventured
breeds the compost of conjecture,
means we look but cannot see
the angels in our architecture.
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