A Little Book Open

I feel my wings, each time the wind blows...as these storm clouds gather. The crows know too...they sit at the posts of the watch tower's, frozen in a stare. I watched them, in a woman's eyes today, dark as hell's own ebon snow's.

They are clever, these crows, that give away nothing, in their signs...but their anger's in their omens...stolen brass, shining in determination. One's a page, one a pawn, no less, nor more than introduction...understanding little of the game.

Ten of them's a book, of a dark deck. Thirteen's a 'reading room coven'. They gather their will, their hedge, measuring the strength against them...of a balanced power, preparing for war! Our wings are fire, our heads bowed down...low.

They know, but know not, the tribulation held...in a short 'prayer of sanctum', while, approach by death, by lie, by using little children's in their art...the blind of their perfectly camouflaged mistake,hidden they think, as they aim for the bird, whose hand hold a 'seraphim quire', open at the word.

There, then...the shadows disappear, as all the darkness summoned in itself, to stay, become as bright as day...at noon, and wither until gone, according to the angel's call, by the power of heaven...he peer about the room, so quiet now and holy...closing his little book of vellum.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art; Seraphim, fiery angels closest to God, Pinterest