• Tricia D. Wagner

Set the Night Singing #2.23

Updated: Oct 14

Let it be no angel who

discovers me upon the mold,

my spirit slain

by body cold.

But let it be the lichen, blue;

the tiny spore who gnaws on bone.

Let him come, the blind worm, wan,

who decorates with eyes, with skins,

the walls of his adobe home.

A skyborne palace, angels say,

awaits the ship of souls who tried

to walk the narrow Earthly way

or, for fair visions, nobly died;

or followed in their wake to live

with those who walk on holy feet

or signed and bought the narrative

that heaven waits, Earth's saints, to greet.

Give me, on waking into death,

the sight of heights no saint has seen,

a warm hand resting on my chest –

the new earth what the loving dreamed.

© 2015 by Tricia D. Wagner. Proudly created with Wix.com

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