Blindfold and Ink

A poem

Photo by Susan Wilkinson on Unsplash

Unveil for me the coal black night,
its seams of stars all ripping.
Let light pour through wound and rend
within the ancient synapses of my mind.

May the ground open below these mountain peaks,
stones to crumble to fire, to smoke,
and gold molten out of cave and tomb
shall crown again the cloud scarred sky.

Rivers blood-let from sourceless heights,
shall stream to ruin and valleys drown
in torrents cold and clean and crystal bright
to fill again this grail of earth.

What angelic feet will tread
the new black soil awaiting growth?
Shall seraph fall again when eyes
see the new beauty to which we rise?

These speculations, nothing to decipher,
mean less than ink or paper or pen,
and stitch again the old red fabric
which our Lady wove when the angel cried.

But I would seek a way always beyond them,
when at last unsaying I shall know,
when this glass darkly gazed upon and through
is finally shattered and my sight is free.