Angel wings blotched with ink
Pluck the feathers, let them sink
Down the depths of fleeting pleasure
What is good? Subjective measure.
Whitest linen hemmed with gold
Lined with rubies, red and bold
Dropped in mud, in realm of swine,
Even Lamb with sinners dined.
You who claim to be righteous
Free from blame, always cautious
To never break a moral code
But fail to love and the self erode.
Take the time to introspect
To empathize and project
A light for those who’ve lost their way,
For in their shoes you walked for days.
Soles wore thin, where to begin?
Strive to make sorrow grin.