Homage To Azrael, The Angel Of Death
Warm was the nightingale in boasting intimacy;
Black was the sky, carcased in a tomb amid the
graves of spiry buildings dwarfed by circumjacent
lands.
Mindful of his dread command, vindicated, un adieu'd
Azrael engrailed in a pitiless wire of reflective
beams snatched from Hell, blasts through the Eternal
night.
On his tempest four thousand wings, four faces pen
whatever Fate records as harmonies ricochet, leaving
no intimate word or personal trace behind ail-stricken
mankind.
Flesh perishes, the hour itself ruled from birth time,
Linen sheets are spread down draped around white
beginnings so small, self wrapped beyond Earth's bounds,
silent.
Flocks and herds chilled numb with consuming fear,
lipped through rhymes of psalms, what doest thou here?
Shivering footsteps follow his melodic tune; human orbits,
pilgrimage.
All musick breathes its last, all magick is an enraptured soul,
and the heart holds sweet remembrances, a prophetic song, as
Azrael's oracle beats, holding your life's blood at His
call.
