tilted— never quite resting
where the light intends
edge catching on stray hairs
like thoughts
that refuse to be tamed
a slip of brightness
sliding into my eyes blinding,
not blessing
I walk with it anyway—
crooked grace
clinking faintly in the wind
sometimes it spins
like a coin still deciding
which face to show the world
and sometimes
it is only shadow remembering
the gold it once held
.
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 6th, 2025 05:20
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 19
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments8
The metaphor in this poem is outstanding. It speaks to all of us as fallen angels and the humanity in error and the balance between earth and heaven the difficulty of being human not saint. Very nicely written Cryptic
Sometimes it seems fit to think this way else we would never forgive ourselves and render ourselves paralysed to any participation in society and such. Thank you so much Soren. 🕊️🙏🏻
Most welcome my friend
Now here's a meditation on the weight and wobble of what we carry above us ( part burden, part ornament ) and how its tilt can change the way we move through the world. 🕊️🙏🏻
Arqios, this one hit. That crooked grace, the coin spinning between light and shadow...it’s beautifully done. And hey, maybe the reason halos don’t sit right on my own head is the damn horns. 😈 Either way, I’m glad you wrote this, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Classic! The horns! I remember distinctly checking my hairline as a preschooler for stumps of horns 😈
LOL! Now they're full on, aren't they? I know mine are! hahahaha!
It gone rusty?! lol.
I’ve gone rusty meself!
Any bits of you fallen off?! lol.
...oh mate, you'll never believe it! I'm a bucket of mismatched spare parts.🤪
Thanks for the Fave 🤩 @Tittu @Soren
A nice way to describe how vulnerable we can be. 👍
Yes! Vulnerability is quite misunderstood both a pariah and exploited. Thanks Kevin. 🕊️🙏🏻
We all have these ironies in life Rik and just have to accept them.
Andy
That's the key! Thanks Andy 🕊️🙏🏻
Dear, Arqios,
A delicate thing, the halo, can easily stain and most difficult to polish - like ridding guilt. A extremely well wrought poem. Much praise for this one.
Fond regards,
Tony.
‘No pressure,’ right! Thanks dear friend 🕊️🙏🏻
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