This is a poem about all the good people in the world, and those looking out for us.
"The Virtue (Guardian Angel)"
The angel screams in a voice so heavenly,
So laden with fatalistic and unanalytic virtue,
So unpresuming and inclusive,
Booming out across the countryside,
Clear like a note from a bell,
With all the killer graces of a bull,
But with all the tenderness of a lamb as well,
Nestled inside the sacred notes of the beckon.
It laments the proven appliances of the badlands it inhabits,
All night, keeping close in sight of the promised land,
And breaking each vow until his purpose is understood,
And it leaves behind the cherubim's proclamation,
To speak the trouth to a troubled soul down on the actuated, fixed, paradoxical range of a world,
That can never make a difference to those who know the angel's truth.
The angel has sprung from the farthest reaches of the world,
To tour across the oceans,
And bring its sweet notes to all who wish to know true exultation of a godly proportion.
Somewhere, tending a garden, an old widow sighs,
For her lack of glorious dreams to reach across the sky and touch,
The angel stalks the road and weathers the night,
Before taking her hand, if only for a moment,
To touch her life as only he can, in a cascade of passion-filled beauty,
And perhaps a true love and compassion,
Or perhaps he is just suspended in his spectacular performance,
From strings emanating from heaven like wispy tendrils of tears on every city of the night.
Frozen in a moment of time so sincere, so exclusive,
So as to transcend in a wormed-out hole of a deep perfect blue,
As the golden bars swirl and entwine the blue in their luster,
Only to be swallowed themselves in the black,
That leaves the angel unharmed.
Heaven's angel, God's secret assassin, the Devil's ambassador,
The angel wears many faces,
But it can only wear one soul on the outside.
For if one is to split one's soul, as we wear many faces,
One is then to sacrifice that which makes us at the level of the image in the eyes of God,
But in the eyes of man, only black and white,
For in the angel, we rise forever dynamic,
But in the eyes of man, we lie forever static.
Yes, the soul remains an angel of heaven,
A minister in the palominic panorama,
That Apollo so willingly rides.
The angel remains futilely emotion-bound,
As I echo so many a time,
How futile are our attempts to alter that which is stone!
The angel does not echo sentiment,
But brings a sentiment entirely different from the widow,
To the next man or woman to which he will touch with so close an intimacy,
And so tender a compassion,
So as to be clasped in the golden bars,
Hidden in the blue,
And enveloped, but lying unharmed, in the blackness of space.
The angel's laments are overdue,
Overdue as well are his joy and trumpetous blasts,
Screams all across the countryside.
The Lord looks upon his servant with respect and
Admiration in an unparalleled and unduplicated, yet unimitated, yet unattempted,
Complete form in his prophet.
The angel's main face is the prophet from God,
And so this face it wears as it takes the hand of those who find themselves
In dire need of something to believe in.
Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it! Remember to please keep all criticism respectful--you are the first people to read my poetry, comments and constructive criticism please, I'm young and would like to improve. I realize my poems are rather confusing sometimes. If anyone doesn't get what this is about, just ask. I will tell you immediately. More to come...unless no one liked this.