unhallowed saint; no less
for recognition's slack.
his doubled reflection
held in the gliding sky, he
sees himself absurdly human.
human and golden just like
the thief he dreamt himself to be in
secrecy, the tramp, just like that,
half woken from half sleep by
the smell of his own night sweats or his
belly's roar seeking something beyond even hunger.
his shoulder-angel turns her head - surely understands
and yields in wistful dissonance - a blessing.

too then, might i yield within circumstance, respond
to tireless requests with the ease of rhapsody, the
listening, the tolerance, the ache flesh exerts as a
fact against my Soul and how
the angels must envy our pain; its harmony's withheld;
doled out silk apologies and the colors of words.
what lie is white? one told in not telling - one to
hold my pulse within its curves like ringing ears
or a burned thumb. one delivering simple monotones
for comfort. simplicity in all its luster
is a noble idea as remote as perfection
and i am steeled in convoluted silence.
an amendment still cannot change the first word.
breath is not taken aback, only continued.
and i am made sore by the details.