Even those held up unflawed
Bare unsmoothened scars beneath
But lions never live declawed
Pen to dagger; just unsheath
Some among the broken stand
Glinting like an unspent fire
Or lay there, shattered in the sand
Attracting ill fortune and fear masquerading as ire
There's no divinity within
Merely a strange ill-colored dream
Disguised not as holiness or sin
Simply there, too real to be a dream
Demons will all pay their due
Saints can't grasp beyond the clouds
Sinners lose once and then they're through
Seraphim find solace in their shrouds
Gods die.
Angels fall.
Demons cry.
Sinners maul.
Yet indeed a beast there is
That ignores the siren call.
Perfect in imperfections
Adorned only by flaws
Immune to life's corrections
Schooled not in "cute" but claws
Misperceptions and rose deceptions
They take mad or quietly
Hideously howling or swiftly drowning in misconceptions
Their ugliness their finest quality
A twisted power, a strange warped grace
Some feral and some with the power inside
Some serene seemingly, some a living mace:
These are the ones Murphy's law defied
These are the ones Murphy's law decried
If perfection a goddess be
They defile her perfectly
Thus the grateful irony
Some twisted on the outside and some merely within
Or a little bit of both
Yet they redeem from perfection's sin:
They are flawed goddess-ghosts. |