Polemic.

Feeding from the latent,
And begging for curios
I’ve assumed thy shape.

You, the little Seraphim,
Progeny of the immaculate
Awaiting your escarpment.

I feel the itch of lesser beings
Their wing’d hands scratch
As I am pressed to you

Forever.

In this, behold hidden loss-
Of beauty, eternity-
Since gone from thy curve ,
That so deeply felt me,
In ardor of flame.

Oh tender thing,
Vicious I am not !
For spreading tender wings
Were thy plight at birth !

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