I wake her from her dream.
Still hazy, she scribbles her visions in pen on a yellow legal tablet.
Tablets, like Moses, brought down from heaven.
Tablets, holy words, for us to sing.
Wiping the sleep from her eyes,
she sings with heaven still roaring in her ears.
Distorted and warm guitars cocoon her voice,
make her visions free from sin.
A light is in her eyes.
A sly, and joyous smile on her lips.
She sees a place promised in holy visions,
in the cutting, bitter words of prophets.
She lays down to sleep.
Dream cycle 4-6. Last song at sunrise.
God is close in cold nights, whispering.
We’ll wake her at first light, to hear Him.
Prophetess, talons in prayers,
time, time, time, and embracing thunder.
Buried words go in through the pores, not ears.
Saving them from sin if only half heard.
One last revelation, and soft kiss,
watching her troubled peace on a vinyl couch.
Heaven comes in snatches as we float to the ceiling.
Prophetess, our soul, my platonic knight errant.
A soft kiss on her brow, she sighs.
Eyes closed, automatic writings, writes her visions.
Half heard, like angels laughing, under soothing cacophony,
she will sing heaven into this world.