By: Deryn Cressey-Rodgers

When we were young, we danced like Gods
And burned like angels.
Original sinners, sinning strong
But frail
Too poor to pay the cost
Of crossing.
Feinting, falling, freedom-fighters
Living off scraps from the grail-fires,
As the brightest candle
Must gutter before the rise of day
We lit the thorny way in a sonata of holy light
Treading tombstones and choirs
Beyond the pale,
And past holy houses.
Courting havoc
And jilting it in our wake.

We were young, we danced like Gods
And burned like angels.
Rebellious sparks, rising downward,
Our flower-girls and trains,
Were poor protection indeed
For we,
Needed no saviours,
Dancing on our crosses
Swaying on gilded frames
Lost souls that led ourselves astray.
We never fell,
But burned in ardour and intent
Born too low
Too late
To warrant a descent.

We, who are old, once danced like angels
And now we burn like gods.