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WAYNE SINDLE
Thief Among Angels
I
In robes of glass did angels light,
Fine crimson garments painting air,
They gathered in that sacred place
To view a single subject there.
Contentment in their countenance,
With eyes pure as The One they served,
Their concentration caused my own
To seek the object they observed.
Discovery held fast my breath,
The function of my pride gone cold,
I met the smallness of myself
In watching majesty unfold.
I wished the will to shake my form,
That spirit may have freely flown
Though hardly from angelic host,
More so from their attention's home.
For what fool heart would court the Sun,
What gallant soul could stand its ground
In presence of such brilliant grace
It drew the mighty angels down?
Oh, fragile crystal seraphim,
In darkness did they seem to reign,
All Heaven dwelt in shadow cast,
All Glory paled to craven shame.
What Kingdom could the ether hold,
What pageant play out more Divine,
What miracle could eyes behold
Compared to that beheld by mine?
And what bold proof that God is Love,
That He should let this creature see?
In mercy did he grant me sight,
Then bless my view with Barbara Lee.
II
How timid is the intellect
When witness to a living jewel,
With mind betrayed by thought itself,
And reason, yielding, plays the fool.
When vulgar rings the art of speech,
Does torment drape the song of men,
And no less crass this written verse,
Chaotic shapes of ink from pen.
What word is there for light made flesh,
What color are the eyes of peace,
What language ancient holds the key
To paint in words my heart's release?
Released indeed, yet chained at once,
Though gentler chains I've never known,
Transfixed, I lost all dreams save one,
That Barbara Lee should be my own.
As musically her silence spoke,
Did fluidly her stillness dance,
Form giving freely of its worth,
And yet I stole each longing glance.
I fashioned masks, her heart to please,
Yet found none I did not despise,
And so, resigned, I played the thief
And gathered beauty with my eyes.
Such precious hands in still repose,
A mystifying veil to weave,
Like clouds across the angel glass
Did her warm breath the air receive.
And with each breath did rise and fall
A figure cast in softness fair,
My soul, bewitched, demand I speak,
Yet I, the thief, could only stare.
III
So stare I did, and still do I,
Though time conspires to block my view,
No element so transient
Could tarnish sanctity so true.
Such hands of timid elegance,
I ache to take them in my own,
To place my lips on tender palm,
My kiss a pauper at her throne.
And should her hand accept my kiss,
And hold it till its shyness pass,
Her hand, in time, would hold a prince,
With shining heart, soul and cuirass.
Alas, this love-struck pauper-prince,
His hope mirage on distant hill,
Can summon strength to merely watch,
As angel ranks adore her still.
And yet, a certain courage stirs,
A call to go where angels stand,
To brush aside their mighty wings,
And take sweet Barbara by the hand.
As courage my heart instigates,
A whisper in the firmament,
A ripple through the angel glass
Sends, my intentions to prevent,
A rain of angels crashing down,
To flush the dreams of paupers out,
That truth may shatter all it touch
And leave behind no shard of doubt
That she is God's own flawless gem,
Created for His heart divine.
If thief I be, then thief am I,
And will not rest till she is mine.
---copyright WAYNE SINDLE---
previously published on poetryREpairs 01.01:007
poetryrepairs.com 'all the fine arts are species of poetry,'
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