Extremities Of Virtues Lost Poem by M.W. Ketchel

Extremities of virtues lost
protrude from wounds
ripped open by winter's frost.
We cast aside heaven's gates
to peer inside the tomb,
where a cracked mirror awaits,
and judgment is our own.
Where everywhere is your soul
nowhere are your scattered dreams.
Empty visions tell it all,
unmasked, in the darkness of your screams.
And, when the gates finally close,
slammed shut for good,
pray you can still feel the rose
and bleed when pricked by her wood.
Redemption from the fires we create
always leads us back here
and again, we can choose our fate.
Cracked glass is still clear,
yet it will cut so deep
when virtue fades before our eyes,
a cold trophy to keep,
alone, watching, as an angel cries.