angel of the lord
a finger falls through the fabric of the wisping air;
the gusts cry calm--whispering behind fallen hair
of words of peace and songs of quiet sleep
pulling front and side: the ebb and flow of the firmaments deep
a stroke of the hand sweeps past
and all of the permanent become but of the past
powers and principalities descend upon the footstool,
by sword and stone making done and undone
all that was created and now reclaimed by the sound of a trumpet call
echoing in the valleys entrenching the face of all actions, the tears, the bitter gall
running high but never dry, the pulses of pain
coming once and again without fail, without blame, like sheets of rain
that come and wash away the bile that taints, the acids which spew
but they stand, steadfast guardians, the virtues and dominions they are not few
sent by a voice unheard yet loud like thunder
calling to home from the other side yonder.
~
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