THE WINGLESS.

A DANTE LIKE SCENE OF HELL

We are wingless
are silent
have blood
on our hands
and in our heads
and hearts,

once we had wings
and a voice
but spoke of those things
not the real
and we had our fill
loved and sexed
and more still,

angeli caduti
angeli senza ali,

once we had it all
and scant cared
for others outside
our state of mien
or race or tribe or creed
and watched the starving
as we ate our feed,

where the light?
whose voices are these?
we hug ourselves
wingless in our darkness
hopeless in our pride,

once our wings
spread wide
and our youth
and wisdom seemed wise
now there is an echoing call
and blood shot eyes.