Waiting to be Perfect
Inside a chrysalis without a dream
Of faith, it waits. A soft and unformed thing
It swells internally. Its aims esteem
Unconsciously the perfect, wing and wing,
And delicate antennae, waiting like
The bud in April, or it’s like a hate
Maturing in revenge’s cask, a spike
That spells out poisons in a wound of fate.
Perhaps it’s like the Second Comers who
Believe that Christ will shout from heaven high
Above their threatened deaths and so construe
Their souls in clear Transfiguration’s sky—
But most of all like Muslim martyrs’ hates
Transformed to Allah’s bloody virgin dates.