by Dorian Dyler
Artwork, “Real Still” by Mitchell Price
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
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
and so I’ll wait, I’ll wait all night
for the last angel.