A Prophetess of Quiet Things

An angel made himself reborn as a girl to know what it was like to be sweet.

               Angels are boys, and with violence and cruelty there are born replete.


               She then become a prophetess of quiet things, the kind words, gentle touch.

               Scriptures in soothed wounds and wiped away tears when life hurts so much.


               Counting god’s grace in the snowy cold of a January night, in a raw, stinging face.

               Knowing his better nature in seeing the light in this ugly and uninspiring place.


               She chose the name Jodie, and shone a light through soft, brown eyes, stars.

               She let light ghosts of her wings send out a soft glow, to churches and go go bars.


               We all are in the dark, trying to find a way back to something we can’t name in waking.

               We all are in the dark, holding on to something innocent the world is intent on taking.


               In an all night gas station, or a fancy restaurant, or a music store, she could be to hear.

               Stories of loss and sorrow, joy and peace, of sacred words high men wanted to disappear.


               Just by being there the scripture spread, the sacred love, the light of heaven on tired skin.

               Can’t corrupt kindness plainly done, can’t be twisted like the sacred writ by man’s broken sin.


               Jodie looked up at the sky, at the stars so endless that city lights hide, but was always there.

               That heavenly light man’s sin hid, but in quiet and tender things, people could still share.




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