Breathing was shallow
the earwigs were sucking
the death out of pinewood remains-
Who goes there?
Sweet voices, soprano…
a visitation of Angels?
synchronicity ripely stunning;
yet a dark, cynical halo circling like crows
o’er dead harvest fields,
Who goes there?
‘WE DO’, said they…have you no eyes?
Thunder exuding resounding clamor
Tearing thru’ acres of land
jaggedly, angrily orange, and blinding
as lightening swept o’er the blackwood,
and, voices stilled, as did the flash sudden flames-
scorching the sweet verdant sod;
peculiar presentation for Angels of The Christ,
perhaps as sphinxlike as Vatican II,
to the Traditionalists from the time of Pius X.
Breathing be cold and compromised it’s said,
near holy soil, with warm epitaphs,
sinners grabbing their ash coated throats,
as the Eyes of a Crucifix
cry unsalted tears
over arched stone and freshly placed lilacs;
violet in Spring serve the sleeping with essence,
and ethereal beauty…almost sacred.
A lone voice in echo interrupts,
commanding the Angels
to return at once’
No one’s safe here, be gone, come home,
no peace nor sleep for felled wings,
while the Risen watch silently o’er them-
with Wisdom and splinters from a Cross… Sacred.
FjR-MMXV
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