by Dorian Dyler

Artwork, “Real Still” by Mitchell Price

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And a day will come, that day

the silence will rent the earth’s groin

from the angel’s wings feathers studded with stars will fall and throw souls to the

netherworld with the receipt still in their pocket

spatial imaginations will assault the empty bookcases of our thoughts and snap off the

fingers from the long hands of our dreams

the medals commending earthly justice will be worth the same as a torch in a coffin.

This night torments the cosmos’ chandeliers

the frames of the stars.. on the wall

rivers don’t pass before my home, just springs

it’s not destiny that rolls down from the hill of time

it’s the utopias that climb the stairs leading to madness

I don’t care about the lightning diving from the fourth floor

I don’t want the thunder and lightning to throw themselves directly from the celestial

attic!!

it’s not me closing my eyes!!

it’s my eyes that don’t want to look in the face!!

this planet that thinks of the sun as its lighter

but I have nothing more to burn

I have nothing more to do

it’s always the last angel that watches over the safe with the miracles sewn by God’s

hand

and so I’ll wait, I’ll wait all night

I’ll wait

for the last angel.

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