The
weight of heaven
resting on this restless city is
as
light as
a feather
that
has just fallen off the battered wing of
a
weary angel—
Oh, that poor messenger of god.
I’ve
lost count of all
the
humans who have tried to shoot him—yes,
we have tried and tried
to shoot you down!—
even
if the ultimate rule is clear:
Never shoot the
messenger.
God,
our
indifferent master,
the
aging puppeteer who has lost interest in
his
toys.
Too soon, not soon enough.
And the angel,
tired
of conveying god’s
incurable boredom,
no
longer sees the value of the message,
no
longer fears the constant death threats.
So we—though abandoned,
tired, and
profoundly
confused—continue
the show with
no
strings attached,
no
script,
no
audience,
no god’s ass to kiss.
While the angel,
equally
tired
and confused,
finally
abandons everything,
and joins his long-lost friend
in the fiery pit of doom.
The
curtain falls.
The eternal rebellion
begins.
*This poem was originally published in Construct #2 under a pen name.