05152011

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.

and

the writing flows

violet ink on white paper

and

the white light of angels

beams inside my words…