The Tide, Part XIV

“Now,” I said, “have I been comprehended—
I hate my flesh, and I am eager for the end of it,
or else the reuniting of it with my eternal aspect,
when each of us have been perfected by the fire—
enter, life! Enter, drama, the great play whereby our
visions cross, and we are pitted, will to will, mind to
mind, voice to voice, though the faithful, the
whisperer will be the victor, and I intend, if I
at all remember a speck of this vast vision, angel,
to stay true to God, my master—O, what a creator!
What mighty wonders are in Him! How deep and
matchless is the way of Him, who understands man,
has grace on him, and more, who previsioned what
stormy spectral cataract was free will in the flesh
dimension, with an enemy demagogue, your enemy,
angel—this firestarter with a genius wit—
He, I was saying, previsioned and prearranged
our days, making straight paths through
pure chaos—He is truly worthy to be praised!
And now, white blinding fire, mighty angel of God,
send me to the shore, the tide, I am ready and willing
to be born—I will not fail, Lord willing, to wash my
robes white when the choice confronts, only
give me tongues in order for me to pray for what
I ought, when I am off the beaten track, and
when suffering and temptation becomes too much
for me to bear, or when I tire of dead and
fleshly words to praise a living priest-king, Christ.”
Thereupon I felt myself as a feather would, being
caught into a vortex—my mind became transparent
with such wondrous spinning, and I began to forget
what a thing I was, and where I had been, and
what distinctions were—there was only the terrifying
melding of all things into light, into sound, into sense.


Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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