An Angels Confess
Angels endure the confusion of war.
by Thomas Foreman
Plush in timeless traverse,
Both sides, stitched in distress.
So deeply run are their cries.
Insinuous of form,
Lost on the surface of the sea.
How can they afford support,
When there is no desire?
How can they clarify
When merciless screams become,
stained in pain?
The battles of man,
Forged on fields of content.
Spirits of the fallen
Rise on heated converse.
Who was right, who was wrong?
Hymns of war, strong in song.
The Angels have stilled on the fallen wind.
They shed their compassion,
Transfixed on the souls that bore,
Placid scores of war.
They turn to see,
Through this dream, beyond me.
They look through me.
Those deep ambric eyes
That have seen the books in Gods library.
All that has fallen shall rise,
Coupled on the breath of flames
From that Holy Furnace.
Their words shine as drops of silence.
“Nothing from war is laid to waste,
except for that forged illusion to divide.”
Remember their compassion,
Untamed and impressed for all.
Like gossamer threads,
Spread out through the universe
Like an endless spider web.
Weaving Angels and animals,
Held with silken strands of empathy.
Gentle in touch, pleased to see.