Do angels, those exchequers
of heaven’s golden shores,
have hearts or humor
as they focus on us with
their greedy, eternal attention?

They must be well-acquainted
with vice and the offending elements
of our ingrained, mortal weaknesses.

I’ve read those frampold canaries
- at man’s creation - coveted the gift
of choice, cruelly denied them - freedoms
that can corrupt the weak and too human.

How do those singers of exquisite songs
still find worthy peers to invite home
unless they pity, forgive or grant
endless sufferance which must,
at least in practice, resemble love.

Running through the forest, into the night
A fire grows strong, a murderous light
Burning the living and eating the dead
The fire grows hungry, leaving havoc in its stead

Weakening the giants, making them tumble
Falling to the ground, an echoing rumble

Ground shaking, twigs breaking
Running for my life, escaping my demise
Death is knocking at my door
My heart speeds as I soar

Trees fall as I fly, feeling so lost
I can’t deny, death is near
My time has come, falling to the ground
Filled with contentment, heaven shines down

Created by the same God
Grown with the same love
I feel no pain, my sufferance gone
The trees and I have become one

Earth:Univerce

Puddle:Ocean
    
       Me:you