The Crooning Dove

Effigy formed of inert dust, 
Inhaled the divine pulse, vile vine  

Infused with worth and dignity. 

I’m not! I’m not! Fallen from grace; 

I frown at my rueful bungle.
Sad to strut, my honor swishes 

Shame; dark crusted conscience 

Hangs on me; keeps paling my worth

Till I yell at Christ’s open arms  

For return of the gone glory, 

So dear, the present, a shadow.
Years in the fire, self-refining,

Yielded scum, dross, a dull shine. 

If I should have another chance, 

Revert to the noble state I’d lost, 

My heart could be tanned rainbow.
A dove cranes on a perch, offset 

Against the blue, croons in the wind, 

Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? 

Yet I battle with baneful pride,   

Scorn the grace, the courting nocturne.

No end to my nice now, I wow.

Quite unequalled, I’ll ever be. 
The bell tolls for others, each time  
Softer; the whir of a whirling world.  

The sun keeps her scoot; stars, their stroll.

Summer smiles; winter whines, sulks.

Time etches against my proud form. 
The bell! Sounds like tolling closer—

Jangling, ruffling… nettling.

Yet my pride… my pride sticks, 

Lances the chance to begin again.
© 2015 Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi

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