Mercy Poem by Sean C. Harrison

Moths to the flames are we
Restless children of men
Blindly flying, compelled by choice,
Making circles round our suns
Then plunging headlong into their ebullient seas,
Conjuring sordid notions for life
Skewing its truest essence-purity, humanity,
(Nemeses of pomposity) .
But the cup is never full till it is.
For it is at the edge we learn
And at the end we turn.

Yet grace...the very pulse of Heaven
Equally no boundaries knows.
And then, even if it does
Far the suns of our doom outshines,
Bears a weight heavier than our gravest crimes,
Winning the fight for many souls
Till we mere men cannot but with deepest awe inquire,
"Where is the end of mercy's fire? "