Lucifer

I picture him in winter, mostly:

A half-forgotten face, uncommon man-shape

In southern cities where he could not be. 

I hear him playing to an empty church,

Notes ricocheting round a birdless sky:

He, who could have made a new religion.

He goes by fields, crossing sour northern ditches,

Clutches the rail, the rust flaking off in his hand:

A stranger in a green, wind-bitten land.

 Why does my Lucifer fold away

His fiery wings? Why does he hide

With the blameless and the earthen?

 

He, who had such a talent for destruction.

sky

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