What do you call those who are
godsends
when there is no god
meting justice in this world?
To call them angels
would be to belittle
their sacrifices,
for angels were in premise made
from the golden mold of altruism, whereas humans are
flawed, imperfect,
sinful (or so some say)
and yet somehow overcome such sins and
imperfections, such selfishness
imbued by the blood god, Evolution,
and, in bold immolation of
egoism, to give to a child
without kinship of blood,
without immediacy of friendship,
a final wish in this unfair world,
a final reckoning of
heinous accounts
as these saints bleed vast oceans of sympathy
for children who,
like innocent flower buds
stomped brutally
by imbecilic boots,
are prematurely martyred to
the indifferent god of
happenstance
and chance
known as
Death.
Do not think of them as angels
or djinni
pouring wishes from a magical lamp;
think of them as twinned hearts
harmonizing in rhythm
with those whose hearts will drum too few beats,
carrying on that precious pattern
of pace
long after the other has
ceased to silence.
Make A Wish
Published
Tangleroot And Tressknot 