They Hover Blessed
A child left to discover the cold—
From each adult's trapping grip; where they
Sell bruises for masks, they shiver on
Their own— (old weeds from inside, they rake)
Round raw heads and hearts, halos made;
At the conviction mishandled,
At the bleeding stunned and broken,
Fluffing out to clear bleak clouds, new wings—
Their own seeing the children anon
At last— like angels on heaven's knees.
~Listen to Martina Mcbride's song,
"Concrete Angel"
—that was my
inspiration for this poem.~
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