Poem: Angels

–Mau­rya Simon
from Ghost Orchid

Who are with­out mercy,
Who con­fide in trum­pet flowers,
Who car­ry loose change in their pockets,
Who dress in black velvet,
Who wince and fid­get like bats,
Who bal­ance their haloes on hatracks,
Who watch reruns of famine,
Who pow­der their noses with pollen,
Who laugh and unleash earthquakes,
Who sidle in and out of our dreams
Like magi­cians, like child­hood friends,
Who prac­tice their smiles like pirates,
Who exer­cise by walk­ing to Zion,
Who live on the edge of doubt,
Who cause ver­ti­go but ease migraines,
Who weep milky tears when troubled,
Whose night sweats engen­der the plague,
Who pin­ion their arms to chandeliers,
Who speak in rid­dles and slant rhymes,
Who love the weak and foolhardy,
Who lust for unripe persimmons,
Who scav­enge the fields for lost souls,
Who hov­er near lighthouses,
Who pray at rail­road crossings,
Who super­vise the study of rainbows,
Who can­not blush but try,
Who curl their hair with corkscrews,
Who hon­ey­moon with Orion,
Who are not wise but pure,
Who behave with impi­ous propriety,
Who hourly scour our faces with hope,
Whose own faces glow like radium,
Whom we’ve cre­at­ed in our own form,
Who are with­out mer­cy, seek and yearn
To return us like fos­silized roses
To the whole­ness of our orig­i­nal bloom.

(The prop­er icon for the post would real­ly be the one shad­owkatt made from Impu­dence by Carl Lund­gren.

Cur­rent Mood: 🤔thought­ful
Cyn is Rick's wife, Katie's Mom, and Esther & Oliver's Mémé. She's also a professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
Posts created 4254

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