Weeping Angels

The dust baked blood caked, 

form flew into a space

beneath the breeze, black, blocks;

and laying her sweet

head she stilled

in death.


The bombs blown, rained, down

and little mites murdered

dying amidst dust, and

and not one to note

their passing,

from life.


A child’s shrill cry filled

a ransacked rumbling building

while over his ruined blooded

body butchers will

claim this is

God’s will.


Not so, the weeping angels greeted

as they raised up

broken bodies to new souls,

to sit 

on Christ’s knee, whose

tears wiped their terrors

and losses and loved their

trembling souls; and sheltered






who have sold their souls to Satan.

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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