angel of the morning is the song I heard


Here I am hollow pointing to the point. I have no idea if I should write this or what it means. This door opens somewhere. My mother thinks I’m mad and might kill myself. I think it’s sad to let the process repeat itself. The water has changed these rocks and the shore is no longer the same because of it, we know that. There are a million birds with no sound living in my heart. You think I don’t know this. You think anger is simply enough to shed this skin. You think I don’t listen to the rain talk as I sit listening to the guns in my head. Do you think nice organized family letters mean shit to me- or that your DNA analysis changed my view of myself. I think nothing of little things except that I am one of them. Except that I’ve imagined a pain so great I can’t stop it. What do I do for money without a man. I do what all woman such as myself do I suppose. Whore out the white one. Don’t ask stupid questions if you can’t deal with what you did. If pretending I’m crazy helps you sleep then go ahead and write your letter. But the meeting will never happen wherever you are if you aren’t listening, just writing like you do. Another ancestral letter tainted in sin. Sin that uses self righteousness to navigate it’s own wretched shores. It’s sad, so sad how the wounds grow into valleys too wide to ever cross in the time remaining. I have forgotten why I’ve started this, writing and the purpose of reply. Who listens to anyone else, no one. And am I a ghost wearing a sheet with holes for eyes. No, but that’s you if I let this happen. Another lonely lifetime because of my little kingdom of animals. I give my heart away to pictures of the big one. Tomorrow is another day. I won’t be preaching. Only waiting for another card to tell me who I am. There are secrets on the other side. I write them as I reach for language that has no sound. It’s because of the doorway. The little wind that blows before the light. Sounds in the dark laced with vengeance that draws blood only if we let it. My mother thinks she knows how lost I am. I told her it’s funny how she sees me. She said how could I see you any other way, I only know you through your words. Hysterical. Valley of her unknown pain. I reach for stars inside us all tinged with little boys who blame themselves and little girls who watch how it’s done. Crawl back into your shell if that’s the best you can do. But I must go and find the source of my echo- and I must see the sands I’ve grown from- into the pearl that I was worn from- for a great price. A blue light hovers over my bed as I envision what art is: Myself is this creation of a seduction so great I am sucking my own tail back into my mouth. I am the ancient hunger. The hurt and demented glorious beast of the underworld, underwater raising my head to the tip of her tongue, swallowing my tail out of desperation to know this beauty. Will you love me, will you feed me the rain and the songbird. Will you swim in my waters with your deadly knife. Will you let her mother words fall like raindrops and lightening for the swan who only goes one way- toward death in the heart of her father who sank. Sank into siren songs of the deep. I am here said the beast, as your ride and your friend. As your deep throated god who is not dimmed by unearthly sex. As your answer when prayers go unheard. I am here as your voice in the night where light fails you. I will be what I find underneath me ignored by her hand. I write love, how to point while hollow and live to see the sunrise filled with you. No one understands but those who hear the little god who dies for no one but me. Because of this miraculous love I am exceptionally unmoved by allegations such as these. Instead I am brightened by my loss. Thank you. I have nothing to prove. The water outside my window caresses the rocky face of this death. Birds begin to sing long wet songs before sunrise. A cold clear breeze pours through the screen as I touch you with this, we are what we let in. I see this in this darkened room. I see the defeat in this shadow realm and I smile without moving anything but letters on this sacred page of my art. Because no one can erase the moon’s possession however she feels, she is queen. No one stops her from covering me in this phantom of listless light. Nothing dulls her prism of lunar contradiction. And so I write the words that haunt you in your sleepless dreaming. My mother played a part in all of this of course and so I am inevitably wrapped in her astral veil. Tears fill my chalice and my tongue is white with unspeakable and enchanting grief. Stricken by god, the king of this war, lightening awakens the dead whose bright corpses line the shore when the shell of myself is blown at the end of this night. I fill this air with me. A summon to peel back black upon black layers of thick sky. I am inside this unspeakable light. Therefore I cannot predict the kaleidoscope of myself who has become both the disguise and the oracle – the horrible earthen daughter and the bodiless mother of sky, angel of the morning is the song I heard. Sharada Devi

14 thoughts on “angel of the morning is the song I heard”

  1. The pain are my colors that I have dimmed and turned to grey. But you, another way, keep going. Making fireworks in the night from the lost light of day. No, I will not give up, for the masses. The sun shines alone where only the sky can go. Bursting through like a bird of light, my heart will be heard like the breath or the breeze. Passing as a gift to the one who sees without need to, but by belief stronger than anyone. Knows. Angel, walking, silently speaking, shine like the diamond I concealed. To myself. I will believe, if nothing else, because you did. In the falling, pounding, the beat of surrender…and in the victory.

    (Over an apparition. I guess that’s why it’s humble.)

    1. I don’t think I believe, I feel I trust.
      I don’t think I’m an apparition, I feel I’m
      God. I don’t know anything. I become everything. To find, to see, to be. It’s a big dramatic deal. I’m ok with that. Heart song bring me to my knees. This soft morning welcomes the wind anyway. Even then, I blow sideways hoping for the best. In the end, destiny is on the horizon, even as the choppy waters of gray…something bright lives below in the cauldron of your stomach…fearless love makes everything just alright. Be a humble king.

      1. The one in the middle.The movement Dances around. Apparition of fear, stared down, til lightning strikes in her eyes. Taking the humble king where he belongs. On the ground, just alright, save for the sparkle in his eye, where you belong.

        1. the two twist around the line up the center.
          the king is no king until he is humble.
          that is where there is fear. in his very own eyes. which isn’t me, but i cause it to rise. i don’t strike, i reveal the suffering. the heart has no sparkle until then. it’s a vast and complex equation.
          and as simple as deeply bowing to the pain of our sin…who else could love me, forgive me, bestow the crown upon me, but me.
          the king becomes everyone then…and no one is lost or left behind as less.

  2. What is the point?
    you’re Mother thinks you’re mad.
    my daughter thinks i am
    in so my ways
    subtle or
    out there…
    to get down to it,
    i am a rock
    her rock
    and You are – your Mother’s rock
    In some ways
    and in others
    But it is Mother’s Day.
    and You are the Angel of the Mourning.

    1. There is no point. I am not attached to my family, not even slightly. I feel all are within but not personally.

  3. as i recall, you started writing this because
    you wanted us all to start
    digging ourselves out of our own nightmare.

    1. is stone better than a rock?
      is there a difference,
      is the mud that
      sprouts the lotus
      less filled with sedimentary elements of deep deep earth earth ?
      If i dip my bare fee into slug slung places
      amongst sand and dirt
      and the misconceived
      Do i full -fill that lacking element of earth in my chart?

    2. I gave up on that long ago.
      I just do my own thing.
      It’s too deep, the nightmare.
      Every person must want to dig.
      And I mean really, not selectively.
      So I exist as myself,
      that’s all I can do.

      1. That is the best thing you can do. Do your own thing.
        Digging, peeling back those BLACK layers.
        There are times I stop digging and get to a point where I rest a bit
        Then, something else will come up.
        I end the cycle with me.
        I chose not to have children
        ON PURPOSE.
        All I see is expectation and DRAMA all around.
        I don’t do it any longer.
        So many less friends now, too.
        I don’t owe anyone ANYTHING.
        I like it that way.
        It’s between Me, Myself and I.
        The Holy Trinity.

  4. I listen to my own voice in “the sacred place of nowhere called letting go.” “Let go again and again.”
    Letting go, letting go…always going home…going home on my own…home to OM OM OM OM OM.
    Om Mani Padme Hum…….

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