“Howl” – by Danielle Swenson; after a poem by Allan Ginsberg

They lie – broken, beautiful like shattered glass
Huddled against the echoes of Doppler’s angry music
Which breaks into a million bright specks
To imitate the light of stars
Barely seen above the dark abyss that stretches between business.

They lean – pretending to possess poise
Oh sad, mangled mannequins! How you crookedly smile.
You get all tangled up in the sea of strings before you
Only to realize you have your own little web,
Dangling from the forgotten fingers of Past
While she silently cries for you.

Yesterday you flew, chirping as you rose
Swinging, singing as the sun began to set.
You reach for the sun; you came too close.
Swirling smoke from your wings mingles with the vi’let haze
You forget His weathered face lined in pain
As He fell flaming to catch you as you tumbled down,
To snatch you from Death’s expectant jaws.

Mercy’s tears of blood are a gift to fallen angels.
They cry soft enough to shatter icy facades
Into a million glittering pieces
Finally releasing the angels from cold cocoons
And send them glowing brightly to the sky
To guard others from flying too close to the sun.

Snowstorms flicker on and off the screen,
Painting impressionistic art for fallen ones.
They do not realize it; they’ve forgotten how.
Forgotten how to swing, sing and fly.
And now the chains that had once borne them up
Have become manacles and cold unfeeling weight
That could have thrown them gently into a field of down.

Oh sad puppets; how you ignore your sad puppeteer.
Do you realize that what lies behind the sea of strings?
There is a mirror – dusty and faded with age.
Fifty years ago it was the same
But less clouded from neglect.

Shattered glass shines light into headlights
Which light the way forward, not back,
Into the empty glowing eyes of figures in the alleyway
Shining false beacons into the sky
Calling angels to their deadly embrace.

Adolescence is human nature in adults
For only children seem to know the public secret.
They have eyes that can see the sacred, Holey hands
That heal the ears of the blind,
And the hearts of them that See.

seeing isn’t believing.
Believing is breathing.
And breathing is Living.