When I stand around an angel I can feel the beams reflecting
but the settled light suggests a word confessed has been infected.
If she sings as bright as Venus life expansions soothe the hurt in me,
and wings align in skies that raise the sacred birth of Mercury.
The waters run a little quicker. Cleaner. Clear as tears and dreams.
An ocean of angelic frost assembles over fields and streams.
But when she minds her bothers and facilitates emotion
there’s a fleeting feeling altered from a peace become commotion.
The astral inflections fade to distant riffs and rumbling.
Humble be the thundering conun-drumming in front of me.
Valleys sink with instant rifts while crumbling the knolls
and mighty seas disseminate, so mountains were atolls.
The tempest runs from dense to thin but wings are finally folded in.
A golden grin can end the swell, the zinfandels will grow again.
When I stand around an angel I can feel the inner struggle.
I can sense a soul and know the beauty rooted deep with trouble.
A scarab with a center born of lightning strikes and Westerlies
cushioned in a heart of crystal, amethyst, and destinies.
I feel awash with senses brought to stratums never pioneered.
A moment of intense intrinsic listening from higher tiers.
I never feel fraternity like the solid strains that grab me
transferring exotic tapestries by synaptic veins of clarity.
The strangest love of all pronounced with tongues of seraph heritage
with equal parts of light and dark I see the cherub cherishes.
I’ll pity life within the sites where focal points align
but something other than my own existence fits within this guise.
After I’m around an angel vespers fade to wordless whispers.
I’m alone with knowledge known of silent tones I won’t remember.
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