The Capture
© Olan L. Smith, 3-3-24
Like lions, angels race through the savanna.
They are helpmates, wearing plain clothes and robes.
Each stunning moment drills down to render,
To penetrate your outermost protective layers
And allows immortal elements to enter.
For a brief moment, the angels are slayers of stupidity.
Your appeal is "Save me." Asking for salvation.
Only gods know the facts they reveal.
You dismiss them as dreams or hallucinations.
They appear as spirits of flesh, lions in the savanna.
One sits at the head of the table and asks, "What is your need?"
They came wearing what they had on—you're that important.
What kind of creature is this? You wonder; they are not human.
No answer comes. You dismiss these visions as sprites,
Phantasms, lunacy, or gusts of wind.
YOU ARE READING
Bird's Eye
PoetryA new collection of poems written by Olan L. Smith starting 2023; all right's reserved.
