What to make of them,
I guess that's why some called them titans
In past lives, maybe demons in others,
Spitting fire and verse,
Commanding we not fear this desolation.
They're meant to be beautiful,
Even crashing into us.
So, why do we shake when they hover?
Fear that we will be crushed,
Like a snake beneath a heel in the garden,
Or fear that we will be unworthy,
Judged before we can draw breath?
Maybe it's just the fact that we never know
What they could be thinking,
If they even have brains at all.
And I hardly thought Angels could be cruel,
Or kind, or anything in between.
These thoughts seem so human,
The qualities of a species that can only feel,
When God had only made creatures to do before breathing life into dust.
And they hardly seem human,
All eyes and wings, feathers a flutter,
Watching all with bands of orbs,
The pressing eyes of God always on us,
Only keeping to their codes.
How could they care if we are kids--
They could never know how precious--
They only are will, controlled contained,
There is no malace or charity,
As with free will.
Only command, following,
Beginning, ending, then drifting away
From burnt cities, charred remains
Dust from the ruins dancing in the air;
The rivers of salt-soaked blood–
Chris Litsey is a teacher, aspiring poet, and former editor of Indiana University Purdue University Columbus’s literary magazine, Talking Leaves, where you can find a few of his published works. He is a father and a lover of reading and writing, getting tattooed, and exploring museums. He lives in Muncie, Indiana, where he teaches and writes.
