Where do the angels’ shadows fall
when caught in heaven’s burgeoned call,
refrained from what their souls have lent
to those of us whose teardrops spent?
When does the crack of dawn deride
the hope of morning’s living tide
by lain expression of midnight’s scorn
that from beginning’s cry is torn?
Tis framed in moments left in night
where drifting souls denied what’s right,
tis bound to fragile hoping thus
that in the dawn new life is thrust
and therein bound forgiveness.
For held in such eternal hands
is love of life and love of man
that grants us each day’s start anew
regardless of the pain imbued.
Therein the stain of what we’ve left,
the edges softened and loss bereft,
that bends the ether’s loving sound
and drives us home to birthing ground.
Tis here amidst the flight and gain,
tis here the loving heart remains,
tis here deep in the desert’s well
we know the space twixt heaven’s hell,
and there we know what’s in us.