by S.T. Gilbreath31 Mar 2015
The color of dirty now, speckled bleak and
Churned recklessly by wide jawed machines.
Piled forgetfully, with mild, haphazard, discretion.
It's our obsession to always stay in control.
It was once the purest of minerals.
Pure in essence, pure in solitude.
But only as it made the journey
From the heavenly to the shrine of vanity.
Before the virgin fall it was a whispered fog of a dream.
An intangible ideal with an unknowable face.
After the divine exit it was a trampled nuisance, unclean.
It's sainthood rested on a moment, so brief in its grace.
Cast itself down, suicidal trajectory chasing the morning stars
Frightful flight of doubt and self righteous yearnings.
Discarded like a bum in his hovel of regrets.
We force blindness when it suits us.
That which we do not see lives not in our mind,
But in that same hovel of regrets, with bums and forgotten saints
And all that which was only pure while falling.
While escaping the righteous and being barred from earthly grace.