Lucifer Falls, Burning
A pantoum for the October 8 poetry prompt
Published in
Oct 9, 2021
Burnt, he swore never have I
ever fallen so far, so fast
ablaze in the dead-morning sky
fires of August. Aghast,
I watched him fall, flung far
with bruised knees, blues
in his blazing head. I said where are
those sweet babies whose
bruised knees turned blood-red
from carpet-stained prayers,
those children, wet-headed
from day-shaken nightmares?
Both carpet and bedraggled prayers
are ash, and the dead morning will sever
black night from hell-fired day-mares —
yet I swore never. Have I? Ever?
