I was a home boarded up, light begging for admittance.
Uriel, you're giving me nothing to work with:
knowledge, art, grace--all eclipsed by your view of the maker's face.
I hid under covers for weeks, years,
built tiers upon tiers of complacency
to mile-mark heaven.
i searched the books of men,
finding nothing to sink my teeth into
but vanilla words and vanilla pages.
i followed the songs of sirens,
only to be dealt the realization
that i sing off-key:
no harmony to keep my voice from resonating eternally.
i bestowed the rite of silence hoping for enlightenment to find me,
yet still i shout myself hoarse.
but passion is an untuned piano: its black sharps mellowed and yellowed with time.
still i lied flat on my back and prayed for rain.
i heard static rapping on the window, "come, grow deaf with me."
but there was no body under the blanket line:
just a husk ripped in half, torn thorax and tendrils withering endlessly.
there was no movement
there was little movement from hands, eyes
fingers turning pages making up for lost time.
somewhere along the line, i stood up and unearthed my roots
groundwater spilling everywhere, i walked down the hallway
where i heard timpani drums.
beating me from the doldrums
dull drums from the other side of the wall
a voice from the firmament:
"I don't mean to put you on the spot, but i dont mean to bother and i probably should've knocked. i've noticed your robing misanthropic, groaning and grumbling about little to nothing.
yet you left a light on
something radiant, something promethean.
And since you've acquired fire, you've desired nothing virile, nothing to entertain."
but Uriel was never there to shine.
so i sang songs,
lyrics weakening gravity then pulling me toward the center and spinning forever to meagerly endeavor that heaven is attached to string, heaven is attached to string.
since when am i a tailor
i can sew nothing.
