by Joshua Gage

            Everything grows tight and cold again
            and winds moan throaty cello tones through clouds.
            I have grown disconsolate this hour,
            its seven sorrows scorched across my skin.

            There’s no better time to be an angel
            dispatched in wing-raged armor to obscure the sun.
            They descend in a crescendo of novenas
            that thunder up my legs and through my chest.

            From the stampede of my heart, seven notes
            to chase the sorrows free, each exhale
            a haloed wind to pluck their smoke away.

© 2022 Joshua Gage  All rights reserved.

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