Somewhere in a pearlescent pool hell
an angel sports tats on its wings
Surely there is encouragement
in being desperately human
in the fellowship of natural flaw
birds of a feather you might well say
Yet we do not consider equality
a gift to be cherished
instead conspiring to be gods
at least dawning celestial forms
We ink wings on our lats
cinemetastasize beings who long to feel
We self-justify as we are
err-apparent to the Divine
Yes somewhere out there we fancy
an angel sports tatted wings
When folded they depict
an atlas of the mortal form
the weight of the heavens
on its bare and blotted shoulders
Tatting… black ink… once-white christening gowns… and a mound of molted, mortal feathers that once mounted clouds…
Thanks for the in-kind response! Unique.