Prisoner of Love
I find that I sleep poorly since my death.
About the time the planets cross the black
star-speckled quadrants, I get up. I drift
in slippers from my bedroom, read a book –
and as I gaze, the sky is filled with angels,
ascending and descending like a leaf
the wind blows. I who saw the seraphim
in my brief stay in Heaven know that gold
and light and music, that slow rush of wings.
I dreamt for fifteen years – beneath the stars,
beneath the sun of noon. And though my eyes
were open, I was elsewhere – prisoner
of love, of love. It was no paradise.
It’s fair to say the suffering I knew
is simply how my life played out. There is
no mystery to it, my brain is ill.
Now, you might value incident. I think
of every fallen angel, whom I saved
quite cleverly one day. There is a wheel
that I set spinning in my kosher house
freed of all graven images. It was
Messiah work, though it may seem unreal.
The jeweled box I placed inside my heart.
The officer who came to check on me
long after midnight, lost in harmony
with the archangels, lost beyond all art.
Prisoner of Love
Rather like that section John. Reminded of another 'visionary'. Mr Blake.jisbell00 wrote: ↑Sun Jan 21, 2024 11:30 am
About the time the planets cross the black
star-speckled quadrants, I get up. I drift
in slippers from my bedroom, read a book –
and as I gaze, the sky is filled with angels,
ascending and descending like a leaf
the wind blows. I who saw the seraphim
in my brief stay in Heaven know that gold
and light and music, that slow rush of wings.
