|Artwork by Jeanie Tomanek|
Courtesy : The Mag
Angelic psalms of care often deprives
The pleasure of waiting for your God,
A noble crime is to forget the divine,
And rest assure in a miraculous drive.
It is sane to wait outside, when ghosts
Of hungry men waits to rape even after
Their lust has broken down into fine dust,
There you cradle your fear and drink
The burning blood that drains through.
Yet with a misplaced anklet that adorned
Her one leg, she swung upon branches,
(An image of love flew for the ghosts to see)
She left herself for the heavens to free.
Measured glances of hope dripped her
Fragile face, she was a daughter, a lover
A mother, a saint and a believer,
She planted herself onto the tree
And sat forever with her bare basket,
For the ghosts and the Gods to see.
Wings of faith were never too large
To lift her off, crowns of thorns
Were never too sharp to keep her down,
A bird which ceased the desire to fly
Now gave her adept company.
No mirrors were born out of the tree,
Which makes me wonder,
Is the bird I see a part of her?
Or are they both a part of something else?