Painting of the Fallen Angel

In the background, 
angels fly in heavenly array. 
They hang behind the subject:
good in the eyes of God,
blending into the blue, 
happy,
boring as bat-shit. 
It is the reject who is interesting. 

A vine curls underneath his leg,
its leaves grazing the stone where he sits.
Those light-leaked wings are almost out. 
The flame of his hair is threaded with shadow.
The muscles have the strength and warmth
of marble, well-crafted. 

(When the painting was presented,
the judges dismissed it. 
They did not care for how the lines were drawn. 
It was a crime of pride.
Also sincerity. 
There was decorum to think about.)

Anger’s corded in his arms
and his fists — the way one constricts the other. 
It is not just rage that clouds those eyes. 
He cries for when he had been called ‘light bringer.’
The sight is one of glory leaving a body. 

His humiliation is that of those who
find grace to have borders. 
‘Better to reign in hell,
than serve in heaven,’
he’ll say, but not yet.
Fuck you, he thinks.
And then: Love me, still.