i have been writing of angels. angels of darkness. angels of light. and, why angels? i don’t know. i can’t know. let the writing take itself wherever it pleases to go. if i try to make of it something it doesn’t wish to be, it resists. if i try to make it up from something it never was, it resists. i have fought with my writing before. there is no longer a place for that.
if it is angels who are infesting my imagination, let them come, then.
i open the door. i allow them in.
they sit with me. they speak to me.
of me. of you. of them.
they speak. i listen.
and whatever they say
is etched upon my soul.
and i write.
and i write.
and i write.
the writing flows
violet ink on white paper
the white light of angels
beams inside my words…