Adumbrated seraph

I guess some standards can’t be met
to lower one into submission.
They’re too upset with themselves
to enter inquisition.

What you opt to wake up to
is never what you prefer.
The only bliss one wishes for
is the opposite of the Hell that’s occurred.

Only the blind wish to see.
Only the deaf wish to hear.
Only the small wish to be,
but none ever wish fear.

It is but the most human,
and the least human of all
who cares not for his wishes
but hears all human dreads call.

One can call them angsty
due to their fear of being small.
But human woes don’t make you human.
The worst of sorrow they’ve had befall.

And it is only their joy
that the artist wishes paint.
It’s the sad man’s sad eyes
that the universe elates.

But the paintbrush impairs
what it claims to convey.
None can capture the art
of existing in disarray.

And disarray and exist
are the very same thing.
For I can jot down a list
of human fears that they’ve missed.

The attention span wanes
when we talk of looks and books.
It is war, it is pains
that their fragile mind cooks.

But these seraphs that walk
the Earth barefoot and listen.
They’re not obliged to talk,
we’re not obliged to kiss them.

But they feel some guilt,
they carry remorse,
for all the hurt they know,
and all that they don’t.

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