You intrigue me. It cannot be the eyes, for without My Light, it would seem a tad stargazed, nor the physique which is quite commonplace or that scar upon the philtrum, or not.
Such beauty is exceptional in a form human.
I flipped my shades, to gaze at such an unostentatious display of perfection. These eyes can shine, I’ve been told when spotting a delight … or two. And no, my tongue is not arenaceous nor elongated. I can already hear the sniggering in your minds as I write in recollection. Sitting obediently on that most uncomfortable patio chair that September, without making a sound, nor a whisper, I studied his form.
Could he have been the Angel of Death, and if he was I would gladly offer him my heart, without even asking for a kiss. A tart would insist, but I am neither bitter nor sweet.
I am pure gold darlings … nothing can be sweeter than honey!
I have never then, experienced all these strangeness in the soul before. It is as if, he was designed by God Himself. The scent reeking is fore-playing my nostrils awakening an ache, a longing of what I’ve seemingly forgotten.
Such blasphemy. Such pain. Such pleasure.
The Vamps, and some subspecies of the human genus would be thrilled if they knew I discovered such a strain, a Light … O but I already am beginning to be under the siren song — his graciousness, the way he shied his humbled head, his eyes crushed into pensive beauty, and his breath as sweet as ice from the perimeters of the Taurus, or the Forbidden Wilderness is beyond any being can bear.
One can only fall … from
Grace the chair*. And only angels can rejoice in the rain. To fall or to rise is never the question when Love is all there Is. Who cares what the world thinks … nothing but metaphors, for they are but imageries still. He can keep his’ if he’d rather, and I, mine. I could drown in those eyes, and return home if only forms could at its intensity of being, melt at my touch. I wonder.
Marriage is always about Love, irrespective the Names and has always been, in the Kingdom, of Spirit.
The past is breathed … out. The tears, dried. The moment is now … to leave. He was the lesson I needed to unravel. And I was his mystery, he never discovered.
It would be such an eternal joy — To never return in form, wavelength or whatsoever. And that would never be narcissistic, to just cease. Only the descent is interested and hold fast to such ideologies of lineage, gloat in pretence the discovery of a new world, new taste, wealth of decadence, ad nauseam … a rather odd address at being humble.
Death will only fulfil the Promise, completing the flow whilst Love returns to its state, unconditional and whilst the worlds will talk for that’s the only good they can ever muster for millennials to come, at least we have found ourselves, and lived the reality, of love ever true.
Ref. Imagery —
“Abstract” Tous Droits Réservés Bahman Farzad
No Angel falls from Grace … it is a state of being, a state of Ascension; Descension however, is a state of being, human after Self-Realisation