In The Company of Angela

Very still lies the blades of the grass against my skin,
green grows my imagination.
Slowly, gently the wind blows through my eyelashes
and drys the tears from my eyes.
Dust crawls across my skin like legions of Gods
smallest armies.
I am tied to the land as though we are twins, and the day...
Creeps on. Souls of the long dead whisper to my ears,
but the winds rob me of my badge of sorrow.
Muddy lines of war-paint slash across my face.
Causes and be-causes reactions and actions
flowing flooding brimming and bubbling,
precocious in it's naivete. Scuffed dirty angels
touch me to stir. I loathe the distraction of their
winged intrusion. Let me merge with this that calls
to me. I wish to confine my being in these blades of grass
against my skin, and lull you to sleep with,
my song of God's imagination,
paint you a picture beyond those you have seen.
Come lay down upon me, in the shade of angels wings.