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Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Tuesday, 8 December 2015

Yours truly, Lucifer.

Yours truly, Lucifer.

My wings are reinstating,
I was devoid of them-
when exiled from heaven.

Now I lay here before you, lord.
below the arcs of this medieval cathedral,
humbled, learned, and out battled.

To give you my black and white,
orated and not scripted for I need;
to expose desperation in my voice...

The sheep before you accentuate-
a dire need for a saviour, nay, a Shepard-
to guide them, they are lost not misguided.

I loomed in the shadows like an owl,
I watched them many a generation-
pour poison in their own cups and sip it.

It baffled me, I lost all sense of initial intent,
so here I am on bent knee before thee,
in the confines of cold brick and stone...

To ask a burning question...
Are these wings for me to come back home?

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