Children of the Aegis Angel

Innocent,
like the first few minutes awake;
before life’s millstone
falls upon ever-leaden shoulders.

We are
newborns,
trying to iron out
the wrinkles on our faces

because good
isn’t ‘perfect enough,’
and we are
tired of hurting.

Tying yellow ribbons
around scarred wrists,
memorials of the crucifixes
that angels lifted.

Are you tired yet?

My weariness, tight jeans
that I choose to wear;
maintaining a still frame
of politically correct agony
that is just
plain
stupid.

Decimate your barriers
and hand your razor blades to He
who no longer fears
the bite of steel;

my Friend,
and hope
who loves despite his scars.

And, you know?
I can still love too.