Fallen Angel: Poetry

An Angel in the Metropolitan Museum of Art 


She was once One with the Light,
feeling its presence infused in Everything
Then She Fell into the Darkness of Lost Souls,
where confusion reigned supreme

She ran in circles, 
ever searching for Sacred Bliss,
spying glimpses in sideways glances
and riddles left in books

She stumbled over the Path
three dozen times,
yet recognized it not

Yet She sensed that each moment 
was just a fragile memory,
a bubble burst with tears and pain,
stained red with the blood of rusty waters

Her wounded wings shuddered at 
the assembly lines of carbon copied reaction,
molds of proper and normal pressed upon 
the forehead and the right hand
of Humanity like brands

There in the land of Cain,
she knew that these Paths were never meant
to be established by ignoble Men
who claim bluish blood

But she could no more prove it
than she could show how Grace 
could shoot through one's entire being 
as if the Stars themselves were at One's feet.

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