Angel wings and shrouds of pain,
burning bright in night's cold sight.
Words to lift and those to ground,
poetic muse please guide my hand.
Let me write of passion's place,
separation and prayers to faith.
All of these are Muse's face
as I seek this to scribe these lines.
This dance is made on razor's edge,
one or other will prevail.
The blood of strife pass away
as I share fruit of union's grace.
It is natural to ask these boons
from the mistress of fay Moons.
Treasures at hand will dispense,
though exchange of mercy's bless.
Distraction given to differences,
unconscious of the binding threads
between the wayfarers of Muse's dream
presented to those who wish to see.
Similarities are contrite
when the moats divide the right
from another other, each their own,
the same in difference ever more.
Prayer is my muted voice,
exclaimed loud in written words.
Those who hear are held to task,
silent witnesses to a grasping heart.
To those who bend on same knee,
I bid hello with last stanzas.
May you fly among the clouds,
far from the painful shrouds.
© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160224.