Under A Dusk Sky

HEAVEN

I heard a distant symphony aloft the skies, beneath the stars,
Mundane as I heard it once—ethereal when I heard it twice,
A voice would come and sing so calm like clouds above, beyond the rain,
Might an angel sing for me.

I’d sit above a glade and wait—for melodies that angels played—
Clearly here I still remember, twilight on a brisk November,
Light of sun in shade of ocher, clouds are shining in a blaze;
North wind whispers while I gaze—

In the heavens, smiling still, never waiting nor expecting—
For some visitor to nigh my ever lonesome company;
Came a strong breeze just above the heaven, stood I, stared there, waiting—
Waiting for one to descend.

Like a feather—‘tis an angel, in such, fell with so much lithe,
His feet kissed the fecund earth and flowers bloom confounding time;
The wind becalm and then he smiled, it was like dawn, a birth again;
The only birth of Lucifer.

Gazing at the godly seraph, standing here in front of me,
My tongue was cut, my heart was stopped, I thought of none, yes, I was gone—
It stared into my soul, not only, he deciphered what I think,
And what I think is nothingness.

“Truly thou a sinner creature.” quoth he, “such a handsome creature.”
“Pardon?” Said I, “what ‘tis thou intend to say?” Nothing I know—
“Thou art what I have yearned for.” ‘Tis what he intend to say,
Ghastly have I not foresee this.

For a handsome seraph standing here, not I, expect a thing,
Thing a nothing thinks of for to reconsider certainty—
Of him, an angel, dote on me, it seemed so ill—a blasphemy,
I thought of nothing but to speak—

“Will it be a sin? A sin that thou, an angel, dote on me?”
When I asked him his visage had shifted—too unbearable,
He mowed on me so frighteningly, it filled me with such contrition.
“Your forgiveness I besiege.”

Then in time like snowflakes in a motion, here I sank within
His arms, too strong, embracing me—plummeting me towards the skies,
The wind it grazes on my skin, and I feel safe against his skin.
“Thou art what I have yearned for.”
 
Then a beam of light resurfaced, sat I, stared there among the trees,
And wind it howled and fog deluged the glade, the forest, and the cliffs—
I sat, wondering, fearing, hurting, wishing it may come again—
‘Tis the angel I bespeak.

A year had passed after the autumn of that brisk November,
On the ground of glade I wait, waiting for the godly angel
To descend and stand before me—make the flowers bloom again,
To effloresce my heart again.

Days would pass and nights would lash the only beating of my heart;
Here on glade I still resort to, linger still and just sit onto
Grasses lush, and thick, and rich, like the golden locks of his,
His, the angel’s that I wait.

Days would pass and twilight kissed the last remaining time I have
To linger still onto the ground of dying stars—of where I wait,
The ashes of each dying embers blow a whisper, breathe a breath,
Breath of death—I’ll wait for death.

A night just pass and here I stood, staring at the silver moon,
Still is waiting, still is waiting, waiting justly for his return.
Came a strong breeze just above the heaven, stood I, stared there, waiting—
Waiting for him to descend.

Then in time like snowflakes in a motion, here I sank within
His arms, too strong, embracing me—plummeting me towards the skies,
The wind brushed gently through me, and the darkness wrapped around me.
“Thou art what I have yearned for.”

A glimpse of body sleeping therein, down below, above the glade,
Scrutinizing it more longer, staring archly—I remember,
Here I stayed within his arms, there my body stayed asleep—
Sleeping for eternity.