Even Messiahs fall on hard luck

I’m a sculpture.

An elegant origami crane in flowery print,
A fierce little poise
of impressionable paper ideals
hung on thin wire,
perfected artful arrow in moist resplendent hues,
a faint, muted monument
suspended
in an airy eggshell room.

A child of good manners and collected interest once fashioned me,
her voice a singing breath in cold
but how she worked
so quietly.

I know that she meant well,
creasing each permanent fold
with innocence assurance,
shaping every point in careful execution-
but little did she know,
as she created her bird of paradise
-perfect prototype of wings and beak and breast-
how fragile her creation would be;

No one told me, in my still exercise
that with one swift blow at best
my folds would yield and cease to hold,
creases no longer straight and precise
but crumpled and messed,
that form of innocence no longer pressed
into my colorful pulp.

Wings that once modeled
in detailed distinction
jut from a brittle ball.

A color-masked mound, wadded,
once paraded permanence-
now a maimed existence,

a thousand and one wishes

crippled to a muttering ruse
on a rough stained floor bed

...too soon a nest for naked pups,
no gallant end when I am ripped to shreds.

From a lower weighless vantage I recall
a windy breath,
a sweet slight afternoon
that called me to blue abovein practiced ease.
No longer will I please
those upturned eyes;

Smiles, whispered admonitions
will not reach
this bit of me that lies
forgotten and discarded in a corner of disillusioned dreams.

...

From 4/9/06