Nevermore

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore”

— The Raven, Edgar Allen Poe

In this summer evening's storm,
a foggy veil of clouds shimmers
with the swirling swords of Eden,
blades of sabres stab the sky.
3-D layers of atmospheric sheep rush, all leaping over the dark hedge of midnight.
The  roar of winds whip through the belly of the night, through sprays of  flashing leaves and branches,
wraiths, swaying an eerie dance
within a cellar door’s spotlight,
flashing a S.O.S. to me,
might the darkness that blankets the underbelly of this sky
be filled with hate and spite?
Might the menace of the night 
be culling out the coming light?
May God forbid!  Might She give us a taste of grace!
And I think about, in all this hysteria of nature flying past my eyes, how fragile is our little world,
how easily this little well of air be tainted for nevermore!
A thin layer of a mix of oxygen keeps this vivid dream alive.
Life is a fleeting twitter perched upon a tree, and truly there is only She
giving birth to everything that sings.
A mother in Her own eyes who knows
time unbound by the cast of chains, She waves a magic wand of love and life upon our brains,
so we might grasp upon Her reins,
ride the sky as open souls,
to give and take Her everything.