Did you hear me through the clouded veil of the seraphim?
I cried your name like it was the last word I knew,
spoken with thunder. You kneeled beside the path,
reverant, but what were you thinking? That earthly
love lasts, that the night is strewn with the garbage
of the day but for our divine interpretations? Some of
us are not attuned to the spirit, we break before it
like toys beneath a boot, we crumble in our prayer
like sand cliffs before the ever-storming orders.
Others are ever embued with longing, but you, you
were made to be filled with a wealth of strength,
the propriety of past golden sufferings and the acknowledgement
of darkness amid billowing starlight. You have not
been made for easy love, yours is a complexity beyond the scope
of mortals and because of this you will find another angel,
a mad person obsessed with the power of the spirit to disrupt
fettered veilings and to break through the walls of death's
castle, plundering treasures made for the dead.
And the dead will rise, make no mistake of optimism,
the ever anxious and fearful dead will raise their tattered
beings upon the balconies of the materially innundated,
they will drink from goblets instead of masoleum gutters.

But do not come off too strong for like Samson you will be
required to test in feats of strength against columnar machineries
instilled in mechanic labyrinths that have lost better than you.
Be listless with the agony of divine love, but do not push its
weight upon the weak for they will push themselves upon you in
groteque displays of death's affirmation, the transformative
proclamation that makes a mass, the television of the spirit.

And be ever kind with frail sweet life
like a candle flame licks the sugared air
from which it melts, drink volumes of oxygen
with the lungs of the mind and feed plants
with carbon dioxide words until gardening
becomes your tender vocation; difficult
yes but with many rewards.

These are the orders of some pale spirit,
the decisions of unannointed lords who for
centuries have deciphered kingdoms among
the false hierarchies of idiot man,
who for millenia have witnessed
the waste of life's instrument
in the scrapheaps of civilizations,
wasted by men that cultivate a hatred
so deep that they depart into it as if they
consumed themselves, these men for who insanity
is too pleasant of a term, these men who
do not age but who were never young,
just burnt up with rage like an idiot kid
storming over an unimportant toy.

Do not go with gentleness,
do not stay with strength,
you must become you and
be free of obligation to
those who would not have you.
Be ever free in love,
my sweet angel, and
drink from the streams
which taste of plum wine,
be ever going with the
quick flow of gentle birds.