Grace

A prize, one night, was born in a secret hearth.
Born was a force to be reckoned with.
Sweetly woven whispers sent to sleeping earth
as she stirred with a muffled riff.
Heaven sent the seraph in the shape of a daughter
with golden hair and ocean eyes;
gentle, like her earth mother had taught her.
She was the one who would teach to be wise;
her kin from the earth to be kind.
But when the fire of man's sinfulness
failed to stay in its bind,
they drowned out remaining righteousness,
and struck the seraph dead.
After she died in battle for a world not her own,
she retired, satisfied, to a holy bed.
leaving grace to yet be sown.

Reviews

[Dennis Shanaberg]

I was very impressed with this piece and it actually took me a couple read throughs to glean everything from it, but the message, though horribly depressing, is an amazing statement about each of us and our idealism. How we are all born pure and idealistic, but struck down by the sinful world, dying and hoping someone else will take our mantel.
You wrote so precisely, too. You didn't waste a word or a line, all of it describes flawlessly this journey of the child to her end. I'd love to see more poems like this from you. Keep it up.

[Ki]

This is lovely!!! Really enjoyed it.
"After she died in a battle for a world not her own, she retired, satisfied, to s holy bed. Leaving grace yet to be sown."
Great! Beautiful...

[jazmin]

that was beautiful, i loved it.