Michael

In a garden, in a dream,
Beneath a dusken sky,
A soul it sauntered, here and there
For solace did it scry.
At such request, a sound of flight,
And so he did appear,
With molten gaze offered laden word,
That bade stone statues tear.

“Be wary, my child, be wary,
  For tis no cruel thing your hand he will not take,
  Like tis no cruel thing most will not join the dance.
  Precise to a drum, (can you hear it?)
  And at once, unruly, (can you feel it?)
  Like to the westerly winds,
  Wanton and wild in their serving,
  Heed my words, my wilful wanderer,
  That scent of an angel, let your mind forget,
  The strength to bear it, that gift I take,
  Know it as a lone petal upon the breeze,
  A fleeting touch of aroma rare.
  Give no chase nor no more life,
  For such beauty perishes before times battlecry,
  And a crumbling tomb takes its place,
  So drink of your dreams,
  That their weight leaves your pockets lining
  And forget, my child, forget,
  Leaving this place and that,
  Fading into the histories of
              that which could never pass.”