Seraph Song

　　Our guide, even unto death

　　They talk to us through the thunder of soul song.

　　The angels.

　　They don`t just dwell in that pristine, perfect palace

　　many have called haven.

　　Heaven.

　　It doesn`t take a master of music to know the heights

　　and mountains of harmony pouring from golden

　　tongues and lips, every song of death and pain forgotten.

　　Here, we will only sing of joy. Stolen story; please report.

　　Of love. Melodies of sheer triumph.

　　Victory.

　　Share in that victory with us. It is your victory too.

　　I didn`t know the human body could harness and hold

　　such light. These angels look like us.

　　Like me.

　　One of the glorious guardians approaches me,

　　gazing on me without looking down.

　　I am your protection. The cloud when you fell.

　　The blanket when you were racked with wet, raw tears.

　　Your higher self.

　　They don`t need wings to flirt with gravity

　　and its merciless cousins—grave doubts,

　　grave fears. Bury them and rise with us.

　　Above it all.

　　The seraphs mingle with the colors of sky,

　　almost indistinguishable from the flight of birds

　　and the plunge of faith.