Empyrean Night
- Feb 26
- 1 min read
Suspended in the darkness,
resting on a sideral cobweb
as if in the pendulum of nonbeing,
I can feel the angel in my third vertebra.
Wings in the wing,
like a renewed millenary promise,
his breath, like a refreshing waterspout.
His hover, candid like a first breath of life in ambrosia,
like a fresh drink of coconut milk
with extracts of the hallowed,
smooths my untamed, hazardous blood.
My will, always leaning toward the storm,
swiftly,
is wholly appeased in its spike and thirst
with swigs of a sparkling, misty grail.
In the dark,
his fingertips touching lightly
my silent lips.
What strings would command this obscure angel?
What highest will would govern his utter goodness?
Below the silent tongues,
I vaguely hear the humming of a hymn
sustained by the pulse of steel pans in A minor
and calypsos.
‘When the light goes down at dusk,
step into my placid, nocturnal abode
and find refuge under the wing
of my hideous, hidden angel.
Everything that sees the light will one day
be swept away; such is the curse of the light.
Even the light will eventually fade out.
It is not the time yet,
but when it comes, do not fear
the awe of the empyrean night,
where there are no chains, pain, nor fire swords.
Nor avenging angels.
Only the bliss of darkness.’
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