First two bits of a work in progress

1

A Lost Leader

Fallen is Lucifer Son of the Morning.
Stripped of his feathers of purple and gold
Wings that were glorious now black and leathery,
hands that were gentle are turned into claws.
We that stood guard on the ramparts of Heaven
now watch there for him who once was our friend
once with hosannas we’d welcome his coming
now swords and shield walls will greet his return
Deep is our sorrowing deep is our anger,
some who fell with him were closer than kin
We might have fallen, so sweet was his summoning,
songs of seduction that led us to harm
Sweet as his songs as creation grew round us,
sweet as his gentleness, soft as his skin,
warm as the smile he fixed on us in friendship
hot as the rage that he turned on his friends
great was the falling of one once so beautiful
turned to destruction as if it were pastime.
How can we pardon him sharpest in judgement
hottest in anger to those who fell short.
Nor would he want us to weaken, forgive him –
pride is his sin and his weakness is vanity
knows himself right in the face of all truth
could not forgive us who think ourselves righteous
cannot see faults in himself to apologize
will never hear all we’d say to persuade him.
Vengeful and angry forever he’s gone for us
Fallen is Lucifer, Son of the Morning

2

Death of a Mother

The room was slightly damp; it smelled of drain
and disinfectant. And it smelled of death
though they had taken them. His mother’s breath
had stopped here, and her anxious witty brain

had run out of excuses to exist.
He read her note and then he read the bill
checked all the items – there was time to kill
before the inquest. And he found the list

of numbers she had called. His most of all
she’d rung so many times, and he was out.
Men do not whimper and he did not shout.
Instead he let the piece of paper fall

She’d left – the thing he never understood.
Women, he thought, are crazy and no good.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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One Response to First two bits of a work in progress

  1. debg says:

    I love this, almost beyond expression. Because he was not a simple human being, was he? So much to him, and so much wasted, and so much utilised. And the poem is going down all those roads, eyes open.

    Am remembering “When the Glitter Fades”. Oh, Christopher….

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