Monday, January 31, 2011

We Are All Waiting for Intermission

The angel starts, the angel stops.
It is said that music paints brighter
faces but music doesn’t paint.
Sing, sing,
shut-eyed hear them
playing the strings of time with their toes.

Joy is the breath of a man who died once.
Joy is the breath of a man who lives.

I heard the angel start and I heard him stop.
Heard silence like we see
white,
pure in its echo of lesser things,
echoing never speaking a lesser thing:
I saw the white silence and I knew His voice,
knew Him when the angel was silent.