our wayward mother-
in her stainless bridal gown,
stained glass crown...
born in the crux of an empire
long removed
she began to conspire.
gathering in the ruin of
city and slum...
grew up resilient in Kingdom-come
but fell into the path of power.
selling her soul to feel
some little bit of control-
marred by complacency and violent division
yet married still-
vows remembered in penitent contrition...
there is still a path for the wayward,
it will lead her forward
through the devastated places
and into festivals of celebrated graces
if she will fall to her knees...
albeit-
waywardly
we fall to our knees.
No comments:
Post a Comment