The plains of fire sweep down upon me,
Burning away sin and shadow.
But what upon this dreary hour,
May be said to be left of me to burn?
The knightly towers of ruin and perfection,
Do watch over my hollow name,
And into darkness, like all other souls,
My self is beckoned, away from the light of God.
But these fires forged, of malice and divinity,
Still rain down with a hellful passion.
Rain of blades to rend the flesh,
and a deceitful poison to wither the will.
But for morrow’s gleam of bitter hope,
Awash in Mother’s divine light,
The clouds may asunder be ripped,
And shatter the illusions of our past.
The angels still weep, that we lock ourselves out,
Of the Garden of Life and Knowledge.
But so shall remain only the bitter gleam,
Til the fires cease and we open our eyes
open my eyes
And emerge unscathed; obliterated and whole.
Cross-posted on Medium (https://medium.com/@gostudent7676/the-calamitous-ecstasy-of-robert-finch-or-a-dream-so-dreary-27c1b8618f0b)