Fallen Angels

Our one and only vice.
our love affair with words,
how they shout or shimmer
in an atomic dance.

Screaming war’s brutal blood
spilled on forgiving land.
Then sip morning dew from
a rusty fallen lance.

While glist’ning like jewels
spilled on fragile art,
wet spider webs tremble
in the morning light.

There is power in words,
their sharp bright consonants,
a percussive melody on
the pulse of you and I.

We dance Tarantellas
in frenzied abandon,
driven by pointed tongues
shooting poison darts.

Or tangle tongues in lovers’ heat,
our love words tart and sweet,
‘til the language of our poems
joins two in passion’s heat.

There is fire in words,
a spark of the essence
of God, of creation.
So we said, “Let there be...”

And we were. You and I,
we spoke with creation’s
golden clay....fire in words.
Wordsmith, where are we now?

Your unsuspected venom
strikes dreams. Anger boils,
spilling hot against a chin
quivering with defeat.

Love, Jody