Florin Lacatus Poet Free verse

Reluctant

Beneath the torches of the reluctant angel platoon,
my eyelids leap
across the border of light
like blind creatures
digging a burrow in the bone of vision.

Here, the thread of logic frays behind the bones,
and God’s memory
shifts into the bullet
awaiting its mark.

I touch a thread of water:
prayer scolds it
with an abyssal, piercing knife:
from each droplet falls
an unborn, unworthy God.

Parables no longer exist:
the seed’s sanctuary moves
into a word without a tongue,
and the trill of a mute bird overturns the Gospel.

Once, I spoke with philosophers in their sleep,
tied their pulses above their mouths,
and blew over their dusty earth
they did not stir:
already sculptures of argument and absence,
daring to shed waxen tears
upon jaws of brass and fear.

I look into myself
as into a sealed crypt:
I reach to unlock the world’s door,
but my hand is the door itself,
and the key
a thought suspended between two apocalypses.

I pray like a stag
to drive nails into God’s temples,
to drip hope over every hell
He, from exhaustion, has left undone.

I am the bride of black silence,
when the Holy Spirit descends
like an electric lamp
over the abandoned body:
no one remembers the name of the first dream,
only a child shelters a crown
remember: his name is Unspoken,
our hearts hypnotized by absence,
where prayer becomes a scream
and truth - a shattered stained glass
in the blind man’s eye.

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