Prickmedainty Poetry

Heaven is Too High for Us

Cloud skimming

over fresh sky from

the porthole of a plane,

it's almost easy to believe

humanity can fly away

from all of our sins

and shortcomings.

But we are not so airily made—

our hearts are clumped heavy

with rage, clogged

unclear.

Everything is honest

in the blue.

You can see intentions

for miles—

The sky can't lie

about itself.

It reigns, it rains

in gossamer drops

and streaks of light

made electric.

I wish I could shine

deadly pure

as beauty

without

body.

*First published in NVCC Fresh Ink 2023