I woke to the possibility of angels,
neatly lined on my duvet.
The glow of laughter still present,
on petaled pink lips, as they pray.
A sight, these angels three;
Come down from the heavens
to sing to me,
of tales I’ve yet to sew,
places my mind has yet to go.
Fertile I sat, patiently waiting,
eager to hear it unfold;
spinning the threads , hung in my head,
looking for me to take hold.
“Within you lies a universe
of tales the world must know.
Take to pen, find the page,
it’s time for us to go.”
“But wait,” I cried as uncertainty
took me by the hand.
“I haven’t the words to write
such tales, you understand.
You’ll find my poetry soft, the prose lacking,
the language far too off.
My rhythm falters, the rhyme has left me,
And I’m afraid my courage is lost.”
Her smile was so much softer than
the cooing of a dove;
She took my hand and led me here,
giving a gentle shove.
Through the window I tumbled,
waiting to hit the ground;
Listening for my breaking bones,
but nothing made a sound.
Eternity stretched before my eyes,
the crystal path now clear.
It washed away insecurity’s grasp,
so, too, it took my fear.
I saw the vision in the angel’s call,
the tales I’ve yet to tell;
adventures of my many lives,
and handled it quite well.
You see, there was no beginning
Or end, I simply had to start;
allow the words forming in my mind
to fall upon my heart.
Now I write this tale for you,
the night the angels called;
letting the words float through the air,
watching where they fall.
If you hear them singing now,
don’t waste time, take to pen and write;
it’s through the stories yet to tell,
you’ll see your soul take flight.