I. THE CONFRONTATION

The angel. It stares at me-
For what, I wonder?
In its glossy eyes-
So wet that it could reflect
My staring face back
That remains anti-climatic,
That remains forgettable
That still remains staring.

The angel. It should laugh-
At me, the Fresh And Modern Fool
Who is short of sparks
That go off in the heart.

However, the angel- it does not
Come to me with its
Face red,
Face puffy,
Eyes glossy
& losing faith
That is reserved for its Creator.

II. THE NEW SIN

In fact:
It has not come to riducle me.

For my lack of speech,
My lack of basic human tendencies,
My lack of basic silent rhythm shared
between one person and another-
Instead, it wants to ask me-
Or better yet- it Demands me,

“Who is it? That has hands
As red as this blood pooling
Out of me,
Never to stop?-

“Whose hands can stab,
An angel without agony,
Without underlying trauma
That nurtured him?-

“Who could possibly pray
In front of me,
With their hands bloodied
In association with a blade-

“Eyes without remorse
Or personal passion?
Why, why, why, oh why?
Could it be you?-

III. THE ACCUSATION AND FORCED PERCEPTION

“The Fool?
The Fresh and Modern bufoon
That fails to begin yet
Fails to end?”

- eoz.