In The Language Of Angels... - Poem by John Tansey
In the Language of Angels …
For the last two years that he lived, death was kind,
To have taken his mind and left, only, the child, again.
So that he would be oblivious to the ways he was mistreated.
Through all the indignities, he just smiled, recalling nothing.
This old, anomaly of a man, endured, simply to write,
Had, one day, written himself, out of life;
So, that night, staff had entered to pull him back
From the white light; Then, child-proofing his room,
The following afternoon, took away his pens, journals and books,
All that had given him life, they took away.
And, from thereafter, served his meals
With plastic sporks and spill proof cups.
Still, enraptured or insane, he would flail his arms:
A wild, white-haired, bed-ridden Maestro,
And waving his hand through the turbulent air,
As a light bulb becoming more brilliant, just before it blows,
He wrote, frantically, in this way, the last of his words,
But, this time, he ended with his epitaph.
They say, it was both written and lost on the wind;
That no one could transcribe the ethereal.
But, I say, he wrote in the Language of Angels,
You can read it all, replete,
in the Annals of the Akashic records…
8.3.8 John Tansey
Copyright ©2008 John Thomas Tansey
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