O haughty angel, draped in pride,
your wings the breadth of dying light.
Whose feathers, wrapped in ells of eyes,
span the ages of delight.
Apple’s taste, as sweet as Fall
enthralls the buds of human tongue,
and like a mountain, proud and tall,
you bend not to the Hells unsung.
From bending branch you pluck the stars,
dead embers for a sullied brow
a crown of fallen brothers made
of Knowledge’s heavy, broken boughs.
And so, you blaze anon with love
for a King that cast you from on high
incinerating paths lead to His
throne- oh manna forgotten, ask you why?
Dances with Tricksters 