Militantly mustachioed, at least in my mind's eye, and
Invincibly attired toe-to-wing in sterling silver, he
Commands legions less scary than our mechanized monsters, but
Hell's soon-to-be tenants are awed enough to scurry. Swords, not
Angelic in a cherubic sense, wilt Lucifer's pride, and
Exiting those gates, the now-Dark Prince howls his lament. I picture
Laughs on Cloud 9, Michael sharing beers and war stories with chums.
It's Day 27 of NaPoWriMo and the prompt from ReadWritePoem is let someone else take the lead, in which we're suppose to write an acrostic poem with the first letter of each line spelling out a word that has special meaning to us. I used my confirmation name of Michael, which I picked as a 13-year-old because the Archangel seemed particularly bad-ass, as far as saints go.