The Gifts of Angels-Sleep

Ghostly hands,
a choir of them
All about
Not taunting
nor waving
just dancing

Moving always out of reaching distance
As I try to remember where my feet are

And swaying upon the fluttery wind…
From the soul of my feet mumbling out

The angels now have faces
Verge of somber or cheer
I cannot tell
Hands coupled
To partly hide
Unknown things

The mumbling now all a blunder
My feet trampling,
Their hands writhing…

The choir fades in and out
My eyes and heart following

The things these angels keep,
Should I seek (it?)
Angels now invite me to embrace…
All feinting me a quick smile
Here I go[.]


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