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ANGELORUM (from Latin: of the Angels)

Blood, chasing itself in my veins,
wants to catch up with ecstasy.

Restless crimson life,
its only ambition a glimpse
into the mirror of being,
awakens within me a mind
that stretches beyond my space.

I gleam with desire, for a moment,
suspended between dreams
my stillness only a reflection,
a hint of endless motion,
while I sink into an upside down reality

I could not possibly have chosen.

There is a mistake!
I should not be here, with these hands and feet!
But blood does not flow through feathers.
I must have lost my wings.

There is such tenderness
up in the sky
where my memory belongs.

I fall, heavily, silently,
even as I hold on to the last cloud
of my innocent dreams.

Too much love can break your heart,
my brothers warned me,
as I tumbled, incredulous, caught by a blind gravity,
unable to offset my own surrender.

Now I walk across the land,
a strange Pilgrim,
carrying a burden of voiceless hope
that I may find the flight I lost
when yesterdays became possible
and tomorrow was born in the moonlight.

There is a place, I heard the story,
on the other side of being
where all hearts rest in silence,
held between soft melodies
that only Angels can hear.

Casting loneliness all around me,
I spin myself into a colorless world,
like a young, wingless butterfly,
hiding within the tight cocoon
that will cradle my wings.

The last breath comes easily, they say,
compared to the many that came before.

Of the Angels, they say, is the last breath,
the one that lifts the Soul.

Of the Angels, they told me.
As if I could ever forget where I came from.

Weeping comes easy, I say,
when one's wings are gone.

Of the Angels,
I am certain,
is this prayer I have whispered
when all I have left to comfort me
is an unfamiliar breath,
burning inside my lungs.

Of the Angels, I know,
is my sorrow.
As if tomorrow could give me my wings,
limbs of that impossible hope
whose distant song I still look for,
heavy and forgotten within my own heart.

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