Frail Skeleton of mythic yesteryear

Suppose I chopped off those wings
and nailed them to the wall
as art
as a gift.
Would you stare at them every day?
Watch them fall apart,
until there is nothing but a frail skeleton
of mythic yesteryear?

Suppose I took that halo of yours
and placed it tight, tight, tightly around your neck
and watch the fucking light spectrum flash over your face.

And suppose I took that golden smile
those pearly whites
and that silver-plated tongue
and turned you into the cheapest metal alloy
that no one could want
that even beggars would refuse.

Suppose I took this perfect representation
and tarnished it-
hid it under layers and layers of dirt and grime and pain and age.

Suppose I took my shovel
and with every bit of soil
hid you closer and closer to the center of the earth
where you’ll always be safe and warm
and in good company.

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Tags:

beg, frail, grime, light spectrum, skeleton, soil and wings