Perfection

to the pained anger of failures

sheathed in rolling piety,

there is a forestry of peace,

winter palaces strewn with warmth

with perfection making pillars.

to the four walls in my head,
its archers turned in on its home city
give me Gilead.
Arrow after arrow, minute after minute,
taste the healing pain of heaven.

wounded to the bone by grace,

battered to the core by love.

sent tumbling to infinity's shore;

my sin is like blood on snow,

the curse of a corrected conscience.

but then the swans resettle

and murmur in the twilight:

"the fault is no longer yours."

perfection is not piety. 

it is the integration of love.

given, and received.

perfection making the pillars.

Free, not forgotten.

delivered to pain

but not to darkness.

in November's clasp

I see the Advent of Heaven.

even in our hurts

we follow the Star.

at its end is

not a palace

but a King.

and in His eyes

all creation

is pierced by Love.

Poured over by

Perfection.