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Till Angels Wings Beat Comfort.

Updated on October 14, 2009

 Till Angels Wings Beat Comfort 



Every breath
that wheezes
in <---
---->o  u t
of my lungs,
is a
reminding me of
the time
that is measured,
in the symphony of
my life, upon
each noteworthy day.

My heart is
a syncopated rhythm,
muscles flexing
to expel blood,
beats per
every breath,
a seemingly
endless pattern,
but even the
gods tire.

My eyelids
like high hats,
stamp out
and clamp down,
on the
visions composed
by my world,
blink, blink
blink, blink
blink, blink
blink, blink
blink, blink
r e s t

My vocal chords
emit base tones,
a constant thrumming
as I read
the metered
paces of this
poetic rendition,
beaten into a submission
that fits my desires.

My skin stretched tight
like the head of a snare,
almost vibrates as
each tiny pulse,
visible beneath
the taut surface
pounds onward.

My temples throb
like a holy place
filled with
adoring the brain
that led them there,
bled them there,
fed them there.

Tiny cilia
dance along the walls
of my lungs,
to the flow of
my life force,
it's compressions,
and decompression's
sending them
into whirling frenzies.

My pupils contract
and expand on the
cacophony of the world,
to which the cyclicity
of my entire being reacts.

I was sired in an
age old pattern
of flesh pounding flesh,
in gentle passionate
palpitations, throbs
and in the expansion of one
into another.

I am an instrument of God,
hammered out of the
flesh of another,
my mother,
whose labor expelled me
through contractual
agreements to a
date with destiny,
that began with
a hand slapping my buttocks,
as I entered this world
with tiny fists clenched,
and mouth agape in a scream.

Even now my fingers are
tap, tap, tapping,
each fingertip extracting,
the words that the keys unlock
on the instrument panel before me,
like drumsticks they
keep pace with my thoughts,
accompanying my song of life.

Until at long last
my grand finale
slows to a thready pulse.

Eyes blink,
blink, and then
seal forever.

Breath metronoming
no more.

Heart straining
to one final roll,
as the pattern of beeps
on the monitors,
go from sharp to flat
and then silence.

Temples emptied
of their faithful flow,
their entrances clotted
with disbelief.

Tiny cilia
now wallflowers
as the music ends,
and the soul
is disbanded.

Skin like parchment
beaten by age
discolors, and sags.

pupils dilate,
widened by the wonder
of this final passage,
noting the last movement,
as fingers curl,
and clench,
and still.

Until then life
is a repetition,
a clash of cymbals,
of all that we are
and ever will be,
endlessly repeated
in resounding beats,
till the soul
grows weary,
and seeks a
quieter place,
where angels wings
beat comfort,
and the pace
is timeless bliss


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    • saddlerider1 profile image

      saddlerider1 7 years ago

      It brought tears to this humble artist's old eyes. Thank you for the share, you are a weaver of words, visions and so intricately intertwined. BIG UP from me.

    • Joshua Kell profile image

      Levi Joshua Kell 7 years ago from Arizona

      What a wonderfully introspective, and projective poem. I enjoyed it immensly. Thank you.