Angels And Gnats
The angels flit about, holy gnats waiting
by Sherry Asbury
for me to lay down my sword and admit defeat.
Lovely are their songs, their wings whisper in my ear.
But there is naught they can tempt me with...
For this tattered body clings tenaciously to its root,
unwilling to accept pronouncements earthly bound.
Where I fly, I file no flight plan, log no log.
Where I fly my lunatic heart soars me there swiftly.
As years became barnacles I could not scrape away,
so did my mind wander and collect its own parasites.
It flowered and pollen from many nations adhered to
my pistil, some clung, some was flung, some...
cosmic shrug without guilt or remorse, titillating.
How late in mortal life we learn the freedom of being
plucked clean of feathers we thought were forever...
When the path is ending not far ahead, we leap into
the realization that it is naught but a cosmic game,
with imps changing the rules and hiding the dice cup.
What does an ancient care of fashion or dialog that bores.
I am forgiven my outlandish spates of discourse quite odd,
someone pats my shoulder and says niceties that I do not
ingest, but spit out to darken the perimeter that is mine.