My Dawnstar Sculpted Archangel
You said you beheld me in memory; automation is such a futile deception. Of five years, my polaroids were empty white. As the sorcerer I am enthralled you, you bore devices a second glance, and a plethora of versions — you and I emerged again.
A library and its wings. Eternity and a day born that moment, the creation of creator’s creations loom before you and I. Between every book’s page, we knew of each ending’s fate that we were untouched. A canvas of no plea to embellish its fine wood.
Brought you to me and now your touch stings. Sting. You have redeemed any inverted cross on the walls beside my slumber realm. Not because of need, but because that is the way you are.
Beloved, you have held the holiest waters. Scraped away any decaying domains attached to the world that is me. The profound sagacity residing in the space of you and I will forever gleam with sacredness. If knowledge is holy, you must be religion.
And made me a superior Poseidon. Throughout the heavens and the earth, I cursed the reflective shore of no return. A piece of undefined land, relying on a moon’s mercy. So, you called me your lune. And I reigned, almost a century, the tiniest of drops to discipline their waves.
I do not wish to rewind the time. You have forever reminded me that the enigma on your wrist is an illusionistic work of a desperate, wailing artist seeking death as a bride. And your wait for me was symbolic of a bur oak tree waiting for a person’s water, though it can survive just as much on its own.
For you and the sight of me. A goddess and her sculpted angel. You must have lost your way out of the museum when you glanced at my gaze and its perpetuity. Wandering forever- the Romans and the empires, over the missing sculpture. You broke free from your clay form just to witness the piety between a green hazel and a void.
Have always been intertwined. I do believe that your form escaped itself the moment mine fell on my prayer knees. That this world would not carry its divine berries had we not been in ruling motion of the season.
Of creation you molded perfectly. For a millennium, you have locked your divinity from the rotting world, and the sky shed crystal tears. And they fell, like swords, on mortal shoulders. For a millennium, you portrayed portraits of belief that you are infinity. Hands of a soldier, a blacksmith’s dreams of a fading Zeus. You would never cast a spell against an eagle, so they never bit through you. Eyes of a hawk, detailed and precise as though you were placing a minacious puzzle fragment to wrap the youthful earth. A heart of diamonds. Untouchable, an enemy of death, defiant and a yielder of devotion only. A night’s learner. A night that ends before the day begins. Polymath. That is just the way that you are.
Let the roses cover you. In your sleep, where you seek rest. You have told me that your dreams remain as peaceful as a night’s starry sky. A walking angel to a shore under the moonlight. Witless visions bear no space in your occupation, and so, you walk, and walk, and walk. You walk until the secrets of the earth are unveiled and then you come back to me.
A castle’s light. Your hands swore to me, remember? That love is what you remember of me, and your memory is compressed with bibles of my being. That you would trace back the light’s shade and the earth’s beginning just to recapitulate a word belonging to a most forgettable day. But you remember.
A journal’s mystique. You must have touched the spines of your possessions to allow submission to the muse you were spilling ink in favor. You spoke of my will and your devoir to reset the world for me to reclaim. Your veins’ intricacy, a thunder’s might. You casted spells upon apples of sinful conations so that you will be of confrontation to truth, and if you escape that garden, you and your sword will serve a time’s plight.
Your altar founded a new genesis. You would sacrifice any reckless thought of impunity for your piece of ardor holds herself still, settled even by the stormiest of winds. You have kept your word; I claim that truth. That your touch was that of snow to a stag. It was both coincidental and inevitable.
Gardens of roses, never a bouquet. You would tell me, over and over. A shield from all thorns, a garden made by you is of loyalty to me. As red as the blood you would spill for me, as green as the center of your eyes. Covered by glass, you would master the fingerprints of any ghost.
Nature, intensified. Perhaps, I am a preacher of these certain set of words. Your relationship with the sky, the sound of a bygone creature, the burying of a dead lamb, a tree’s wine. As your eyes were sealed within the spaces of my confinement, you were simultaneously still inside and outside, shifting consciousness between the living and the deceased- the human and the celestial. If nature is anything, it is you; between the branches of your arms. The sun’s warmest shade, a vine’s deepest roots, a tree’s fruitful offspring, the moon’s lost lament.
There was nothing too short for you, nothing too long. You are eternal, and eternity knows not of the bounds of time. Of exceptional beauty you were delivered to this world, and you promised we would conquer it forever. We would watch, if necessary, the burning of every rotten red, lurking beneath the makings of your Midas gold.
Forgive me, I know not of the scripture of words.
