My angel, evidently, has broken wings, still tries to lift me up,
It also somehow clearly seems, my chalice forms a broken cup,
The song I dream from my cracked lips, the bowl from which I sup
Imperfect too, a blemished thing, rides like my shirt untucked.
Yet from the grist and guts of it twists my remaining luck,
As one who wins just second place my thoughts also run amok.
From my wrist I fashion it, unclenching my tight fist a bit
Into an open palm in order not to strike a blow or hit out at anyone;
– If God were perfect and could fit together like an answered prayer,
Love would take me home to him borne on such a rarer air.
Yet truth is not enough I fear and hope but mere deceit
And from what I’ve seen everywhere, Life ends always in defeat.
For this I am guilty to declare my challenge to miracles anywhere,
God, prove me wrong, if you dare to show me nurture and not harm
Or else at least to show you care a damn with truth to accept me as I am
Not just judge my lack of charm or doom my gloom right down.
I’d like to sing of second birth and say heaven is to be found on earth
But from the dirth my dirges groan with lack of thrumming mirth
And thirst for meaning makes me bleak and black as my parched tongue
When champagne springs and angel wings are only when you’re young.