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
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