Gifts of Servitude

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?