Author’s Note: It is very possible that I have been reading too much Rilke, as this just poured out of my pen the other night and demanded to be born on the paper. Somewhere between prose and poetry, it has an intensity enhanced by its brevity.
What if they are messengers, but not in the way
that you think? What if their job is to demand
that you wake up and change your life — right
now, no excuses, no hesitating.
And they do not do this gently. They do it with
trumpets, with voices that resound to the
vaults of the heavens, shaking everything.
They plummet like a thunderbolt into your life,
brilliant and deadly, overwhelming in the sheer
reality of their being.
There is nothing soft about angels. They are
not beings of love, but beings of pure will.
The unyielding logos of the godhead.
Their nascence was in the birth of stars —
those embers in the deepest dark, burning with
a ferocity mortals can barely imagine. And some
of that fire is still in them — it is them —
and it sears all who dare meet their lambent
gaze with the pure light of revelation.