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  • Somewhere, sometime that one drop will fall.
    In weight and measure sufficient
    to tip the long held balance.

    Oh, to be the one, lone angel charged with holding it back.
    All these years getting along, getting by,
    making the rounds on eternity’s beat
    you and an old dog shuffling along at your heels.
    Even an immortal winces and chafes
    under the burden of these old, earth-bound blues
    So many ages come and gone,
    so many forgotten epics sung,
    to have it all come down to the fall of a single tear.

    The last angel, the only one home,
    hears the creak of the gate,
    hears Fate's heavy tread on the stairs,
    hears the click of the latch,
    wishing she could fly away,
    but knowing, here and there are all one,
    ain't omniscience a kick in the ass,
    watches the tear well up, swell, poise to fall,
    wondering at the sheer weight of this single drop,
    a superdense gem at the end of a long forged chain.

    Ag, she eases the pain in her back
    works the crick out of her neck
    the hell of it is, she thinks,
    where's an angel to run
    when the waters rise?
    She laughs,
    “get it?” she asks,
    “gots wings
    but nowhere to fly.”
    Divine irony, she decides and turns her face to the sun
    one last time.
  • This was in response to a picture prompt. The picture has a very shy, almost cute angle, ankle deep in a lotus strewn pond, with a picture of a window behind her and a dog, almost up to its belly looking up quizzically at her. I am not sure the end result here had much to do with the picture but that is the way of our connections to art and life. We take the ball and run with it, arriving at unexpected ends and all new territory. I worked some of the kinks (and likely worked new ones in) out of the first rougher drafts and will leave at this for the moment.
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