Clip Your Wings, Baby
In the darkest depths far below,
The furnace may incinerate
Sin's vice and folly apropos
Before evil may saturate.
With no way to absquatulate
From what Death's disposition brings,
One must rely on their damned fate
And clip their feathery, white wings.
The mocking voice, Contrapasso,
Cuts sharply, harshly—biserrate—
Into the transgressions I know:
What bad intention does create.
My insult will annihilate
In sameness what the black heart sings.
The self must incapacitate
And clip its feathery, white wings.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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