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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required They measured my soul against doctrine and found its constellation too wayward to be blessed. Thus I was entrusted to the reliquary of uncanonized marvels: an alabaster raven whose argent plumage bewildered midnight; a chrysoprase chalice, hairlined with centuries, yet sweeter than untouched crystal; a black asphodel whose fragrance outlived every psalm; and one bent aureole, still luminous where perfection would have fractured. I entered the vesper orchard. Cinnabar fruit ripened beneath eclipses. The wind officiated, censing the dark with myrrh, until respiration itself became liturgy. There, obsidian lilies raised their chalices beyond the jurisdiction of dawn. No scripture remembered them. Yet the stars crossed more slowly above their perfume. Upon an abandoned shelf the pale circumference of a lifted vessel remained. Dust had refused it. Time had not. Then every relic relinquished its disguise. The bent aureole had merely learned the curvature mercy requires. The alabaster raven was daylight remembering itself before colour accepted obedience. The fractured chalice held more heaven than the cathedral that refused it. Your silence arrived with the faint sweetness left inside a cupboard after a cherished vessel has been lifted away. Every thorn forgot blood. Every serpent its verdict. Every stone its apprenticeship to violence. Then the hidden ordinance of creation stood unveiled. Paradise has never dwelt inside perfection. Its earliest radiance has always sought whatever certainty condemns first. The universe keeps its original face inside whatever perfection cannot imitate.
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