David Estringel

Sepscendence

Fire 
in my lungs
and poisoned veins, 
fading
in (to white)
out (to black),
I see the eye of God—
unflinching
cold
against the welcoming void 
of closed lids…
…that dream?
Is He keeping vigil?
Calling in the loan?

Always attending 
never 
ending,
His watch, nary a waver,
there
between the veil
‘til shadows 
of angels, wingless
white
against the blaze of
artificial suns, rouse me 
back 
to this world of light 
and illusion—the Hell 
of my own making,
Was He keeping vigil?
Calling in the loan?

I suppose I’ll never know

***

Originally published in Alebrijes Review

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