by Nick Gisburne
We call them angels. Clearly they are not.
A trick is what they say we saw, in church.
Deceivers, devils, hounded, hunted, shot,
And still, for strays, concealed from sight, we search.
I met one, not a monster, this I know.
He took the time to patiently explain
The purpose of his presence here, and show
Regret that he could never now remain.
Enlightenment was all they came to give,
A tiny, perfect piece of something new,
But murder, too appalling to forgive,
Destroyed the door before we stumbled through.
We drive them out, too terrified to learn.
They wait, again, and one day will return.
