Love Does Reign, On From High

Dawn, blessed,
looks over the crevasses of the world
and frowns, a metallic dirge on her lips;

the scent of hemoglobin rises,
a cloud of iron obscuring
the angels that fly
hither and thither
with goodness firmly tucked
in hand, in heart.

She wonders, yet again,
why she has loved
and lost
all of the precious things.

But Dawn is a violet,
curls of forgiveness arising
from her crushed heart.

You may not believe,
but I still see angels.