Harlequin

good girls wear halos

a crown
in all its glory, its everlasting luminescence,
floats above the crest of Her scalp
pure
untouched. dazzling white. snow smoke
blossoming from the golden ring.
Her body, Her flesh, Her bones—they're transparent.
Her soul glows as bright as Her tiara
as the extravaganza
of Her being continues.
a good girl, isn't She
not
?

"HAIL MOTHER!" they say as they pray,
as they follow.
the air particles around Her lavish
in starlight.
believers let their eyes bathe
in ALL Her holiness.
the light grows and grows
until it burns
as She flaps Her wings
—Oh, Those Magnificent Wings!—
and dances with the clouds above our heads.

but for the pathetic ones,
they wait for the clock to strike twelve.
She arrives in sweet smiles and minds as blue
as the gentle afternoon.
She parts her mouth, words of wisdom leaving her tongue,
as the pathetic ones sung
along bitterly.
too bright, too bright was the light
their skin melted in rivulets
thinning away like a flock of birds
taking flight.
a generous act, She thought,
as She sought
their pride, their hearts, their spirits
and shattered them thereafter.
She picked up the zillion pieces,
rearranged them like a maniacal puppeteer
and were there more than dozen
doppelgängers of Her,
so queer,
so
fascinating.

the pathetic ones were under the skin
that was stained with sin
but they still watched the sky be set ablaze,
whispering and sobbing and wailing in the haze
of their mind
that good girls wear halos too.