a nuisance
scraping the sallow pavement

is what it was.

P ondering the truth and throttling
A cquiesence like it was a familiar
R use to be outplayed by vision plodding
I rises holding us against the
S ubtle egress of omens.

W arble no longer, paradisiacal birds.
I   gnite no longer, city buoys.
T his is where they come to salvage ire.
H arbingers — dark, something fire

L eaves on damp graves
O ver grasslands lay quiet, felled dew
V ermilion   eye seeing all
E rupt in a flash of a gun.

He has a tall stature, a muscular build, and holds a posture like a Greek god. His shoulders and jaw both perfectly squared. He has a profile that would inspire Michelangelo. A nose sculpted from clay, his eyes of arble, which reflect an ocean's light. A sharp-shaven chin and waves of silk on his head. Messy curls fall in place with a painter's still perfection, enframing complementary angles of his cheekbones. His gaze is gentle, but crystal. Eyes the color of teal water rising up on the shore. There is no doubt he was crafted in Heaven, but why does an Angel like him rest on such wretched ground.