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I

I used a size zero brush to coax the dust
off my target. This crypt was a vision -
gilded coffins etched in the memory
of those could read. These glyphs - there, sunbeam -
enriched minds as loam to native soil.
These glyphs: quiet poetry of angels.

II

My translator recited these angels'
acts in tongues of lands long since left to dust.
Reading right to left - she squeals - the soil
had hid a mechanism. Her vision
was quite sharp. Thru two loose bricks a sunbeam
fell on her face. That was my last happy memory.

III

Fresh air, all too soon, was a memory.
Some drafts caressed my face. She said, "Angels
roam these blocked halls. Yearning for the sunbeam
to show them a path to the sky. But dust
clogs all the masonry; chokes their vision;
chains their souls. Shoed feet feel not warm soil."

IV

I stared agape - her mention of soil
woke my hunger. I searched my memory
for my last meal. Water blurred my vision.
"How is it you know so much of angels?"
Her head dropped, bare feet berthing storms of dust.
"How do you tell starlight from a sunbeam?"

V

"Starlight hasn't the warmth of a sunbeam."
Less hoarsely: "Like comparing sunned soil
against shaded rocks." I taste the dust
with my next breath. Coughing by memory
to clear my lungs, frozen by my angel's
face -- a sneer of predatory vision.

VI

"Morningstar's rebellious plan - his vision -
to equal Him... earned exile. Sunbeam
byways lacing the sky, meant for angels,
but for eclipsed ascent... once you're soil..."
"Not saved? I'll be a fading memory?"
"Ashes to ashes, Love. Dust to dust."

Tornada

Despaired, the vision of loam black soil
sparks a memory. Once cut a sunbeam
bright which blurred angels' outlines with air's dust.

Submitted for the approval of The Midnight Society.

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