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Fate Plays No Favorites

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Stars are nothing but puckish fiends
whispering fallacies to broken-down dreamers
and beckoning with drops of emulated sunshine.
I wish upon the home of the angels instead
as it lies meandering though the vapors of the stratosphere,
where alabaster sunlight strikes a flash of opalescent wings
and the world is illumed with color.

My precious seraphs,
forever the sculptors of a hue-dappled sky,
patiently shape morsels of puppy love
and vermillion embarrassment,
fragments of shiny amour propre,
and iridescent crystals of unrequited love.
Constructing our world from the blissful oblivion of cumulus thrones,
eagerly peering downward through fairyglass windows,
they unclasp ethereal fingers to reveal a speck of pride
or a carefully-molded peg of betrayal
and a hollow clay socket of empathy to match.
Their artisan creations tumble to rain-soaked ground
and find themselves a place in our eternity,
undulating in minds and hearts,
restlessly embossing the essence of our being
until they are no more—
for time grants evanescence,
and angel-clay soon fades to angel-dust.

Sometimes we see the mark of a mistake—
a slip in the finesse of the master sculptors as
shards of celestial pottery come down half-baked
and we lose ourselves in fool's paradise.
Naïveté angels lean precariously over the edge,
and the archangel snatches at their wings,
but he is left to weep with only a fistful
of velvety, opalescent plumage
and they are fated to fall,
whizzing through transience and abandoning immortality,
tumbling out of the citadel of seraphs
—the home of the angels—
destined to walk among us as a tarnished memory:
those beautiful people
we call heroes.

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