Angel’s footing, muse’s fire,
unattainable and out of reach;
identity, attire, existentially
ugly, malformed, stitched in discordant
black and muddy grey against a scene
set in pink, gold, red and green.
Forget this folly, so simple for one baptized,
scripted: base, miscast, crude.
Remain backstage, wait, lean upon
prop arrows and dance to cued thunderclaps;
watch the spectacle spin,
know when lines of relief
will be vacant, capped pen, silent.
Captive, the role isn’t the ballast of deus skies,
less than that, countersunk, bit,
and in sandbag’s fall, rise,
use wings owned, known, proven, if but wax,
lose nothing but a title and a tether;
to open weather, exit or exile, same thing;
dance with sparks and fire again, engine,
renamed, reclaimed angel.
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