for weary brothers and sisters (Revisited)

I’m sorry I judge, that

sometimes my mind makes up its mind so 

you become a caricature, 

a distorted portrait 

that I hang up in the hallways of my heart.

As I drift through the maze within, I 

start to believe that's what you really look like.
I’m sorry because that's you about as much as 

a cat is a redwood;

actually, you are an eternal being
with wings that furl and unfurl
like the sails of a boat destined for
an everlasting sunset.

I’m sorry because I see your wings
damaged in some places. Feathers
torn out by the fistfuls of hate
and rage and seething, they
rip them off; I
ripped them off.
I’m sorry because both devils and angels
have wings and now I see
it is what we say to one another,
it is how we speak to one another,
it is how we either further oppress the broken,
or lay ourselves down to raise up the weak
that drives us to become
one or the other.

I'm sorry it hurts, that

sometimes it feels like it might
hurt less to pluck each feather yourself, then

let them fall in rhythm to your leaking tears.

But listen,

you are not wounded so badly

that our Father cannot bind you up.
The One who sewed the stars into the sky,
garments of skin for the naked and weak,
wings onto the backs of heaven’s host;
He can take your crumpled feathers
and clothe you in brilliant white.
The enemy may paw at your innocence,
but you are not damaged goods,
you are not unlovable,
you are everything He wants,
and He stretched His arms wide on a cross 

to show you how much
He loves you.

You are an angel, we are angels
imperfect, with perfectly patched up wings
who either preach or withhold
the secrets of eternity and destiny
to beings with broken wings;
we are all immortal horrors or
everlasting splendors.