Passage

  You have seen the bumbling angels

  aroused in this house,

  my unintentional secret.

  Awakened by your night deep chill,

  they clothe themselves in our

  material possessions.

  They fashion arms from candlesticks,

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  make hands with matchstick fingers

  and assemble flammable, flowing, drapery wings.

  Their love of being seen, a longing

  to be consumed, is unbearable fire,

  but is little heat against the unmelting

  snow of time.

  Their new wings make

  only wind, no friction.

  They lack the presence of flesh,

  but their hands burn to rub together.

  All they claim is whispered passage.

  All they have is another's old home.

  They keep our keys in their locks,

  keep us on our threshold,

  keep us from coming home.

  -Kat Isacson

  Does this poem make my 'but' look big? :D

  This poem is all about contradictions... Thank you for reading it!

  +kat