by tlhopkinson
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A patriarch posed atop temple spire,

my Midas skin clashes against the horizon

and taunts flashes at stabs of lightning.

My trumpet tapers to taut in everlasting exaltation,

and my face aims at morning light

while my gaze slips down,

beyond bare feet balanced

prudently on a planet of sermons.

Not another angel in this midst,

but an abandoned icon coined by man.

There’s no treasure in this trophy,

no gospel in my gild,

and no authority in my image.

Draped in robes of stone discomfort,

I watch women enter the doors below.



“And I saw another angel fly in the midst of heaven, having the everlasting gospel to preach unto them that dwell on the earth, and to every nation, and kindred, and tongue, and people . . .” — Revelation 14:6

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