Angel's Song

Night may decry its emptiness within the hours of darkest expectation when the hope of dawning is remote. My messenger is shy, for she appears above/below my consciousness though there are times that I perceive faint brushing by, her kiss without a reason why. There as the refuge of the day draws light upon itself I hear the waking of the infant message on the threshold, nothing less for me than angel's song-- questions rest with ease, and infant poetry is born. Then here am I, fair shorn of wisdom, deferential to the powers that lie within, prone to hollow breath that rises as a sudden storm to strike at equanimity, and purify the air. The painters do quite well to give my muses wings, for though invisible they fly above, not through hell's ostentatious cones, that I have fashioned like some bumbling god, ex nihilo. ~