Holy Exile Poem by Sonny Rainshine

The pain around his shoulder blades,
bursitis, his physician had declared,
was rather the strain of maturing wings
pushing against the dermal wall
forcing an outlet with contractions
and inflammation.

Vibrating auras and piercing spasms
around the top of his head
were not symptoms of migraine,
but an intermittent nimbus in manifestation;
the kaleidoscopic patterns before his eyes
were apparitions, transfigurations,
sanctified visions.

Festering lesions on his palms
and feet were not the self-inflicted
bruises of a neurotic masochist,
but surely holy wounds,
the stigmata of beatification.

Trembling in his misery,
self-exiled from the small pleasures
of ordinary time and place,
he awaited his ascension
and imagined a universe free
from wickedness and suffering.
An involuntary sigh escapes
his thirsty mouth, as the black curtain
between reality and the human mind
began to descend and he felt
lonelier than he ever imagined
it was possible to feel.