Blunt,
are the swords of poor angels,
they walk like indicted perpetrators of something silly,
inciting change with childish but legitimate anger,
shifting something unimportant.
to sloppy observers:
they look poor.
empty.
& without divine energy.
yet to those of us,
with weird eyes and too much pain,
we look on,
giggling with a mirth of endless intense,
ready to hear,
and walk beside them,
with nothing to offer
but thanks and much much awe…
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