they look down so low,
scrape their blissful eyes
across the broken bodied landscape
of hopelessness and loss,
they dont weep for the dross
of despair and the flotsam of the drifting lost,
their harps of gold
whisper tunes of prayer and anthems of worship
upwards from them, up jacobs dream ladder to God.

misfits and broken boys
glimmering saints, apostles and the divine misguided
with starry feet to alight the cloudy white way,
and here we sit with the blood in our veins
and too solitary of souls to meet our makers,
we raise our questioning lips
we lift our broken hands to the sky
and no angels reach down from on high
to touch our fingertips with the golden blessed light.

just darkness over the waters, and the firmaments, the night
it does blanket us from their wandering eyes.

12/02/2011

Posted on 12/02/2011
Copyright © 2025 Vikki Owens