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| The Angel |
| How with winged grace, did he come haunting in my dreams, a crystal pool rippling light breezes. To fill with shrouding mist, the dark to light as if in pure sunrise, a gown of rainbows settling to white. Blazing yet with light sword, to matter my life with a human purpose, drop things consequential meaningless. He spoke without sound, tunneling the air into winded song notes, fashioning paintings brushed with lips. Upon his head golden aura, and with no arms an encirclement close, to break the dark paths of the mind. As he rose through sight, thought of return became mortal issue, as once the wish to die was primal. � 2000 DPMcClellan |
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