Cherubim

A glowing, white platform, then another, fills my vision in my sleep. 

Upon these steppes, there were the awesome cherubim, each face pointing to all directions that I’ve gone, and those that I’ve not seen. 

Each of Ezekiel's cherubim's wheels within wheels were there, angels all in bubbly disks within larger disks, squirm in their gelatinous pods, as if tadpoles, waiting impatiently to guide me on my way. 

What a dream!  Do we dream to put away our interpretations, or do we dream to internalize our thoughts into action? 

Paths, paths have been closing, so sad.  Old age means I can never do what I could do before, but the cherubim wave to a road always lain in shadows as darkened doors, within wooden floors, upon His platforms. 

The cherubim light such a long stretch, with their laser eyes that illuminate this difficult pristine path. 

Only the ones who can endure the yoke might plough their way through the rubble of the stream, and the boulders put there so many millions years before. 

The skies, turquoise, red, and purple, straddle this new horizon, and where the question, What lies ahead? Sits at the vanishing point, to tempt me on my way. 

This twilight path between the firmaments all layered like a pie, is a quiet path that suggests a new beginning, whether it be life or death, and I must walk that path as I must breathe. 

And so I make my way across the gravel and the stones, to see what lies ahead.