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The Angel of Death
- The Angel of Death -
The air is chill as ice, and the night both cold and long,
It doth seem to me that a long age hath come and gone…
I am waiting, so patiently waiting, for my soul's release,
When will the dark messenger come, to bring me peace?
That bright winged angel of soft shadows and gray mists,
Oh, when will my angel come, to offer me her fatal kiss?
The air is chill as ice, and the night both cold and long,
Yet in the darkness, methinks I hear of her lonely song…
It is both inhuman and strange; it seems never to cease,
The shrieking and wailing seem to come from the Abyss,
Could it be my dark angel, come to offer me her fatal kiss?
The night hath grown frosty cold, the air is become chill,
The strange singer is drawing nearer, her voice high and shrill…
The shadows close in around me, like great birds of prey,
The blackness of their wings seems to promise no rising of the day.
I knew that I wouldst never live to see another bright morn,
Now I am certain, for here cometh my angel, like a fearful storm!
I canst hear the rhythmic flapping of her black raven's wings,
The shadows part for her will, and by that power I canst see…
Yet, I have opened mine eyes only to behold terrible things!
She descends to greet me, her smile as beautiful as canst be…
Clothed in robes spun from darkness and from mortal fear.
Yet, for me she doth shed a single bloodily crimson tear…
The night is no longer cold; the air is no longer quite chill,
My dark musician is with me, her voice: no longer high and shrill.
She sings now the honeyed dirge as for a loved one lost to all,
And from her dark yet gentle eyes, a thousand red tears do fall!
She takes me up into her pale, supernaturally strong arms,
And to my angel I am lost, as a maiden to her lover's charms.
Her touch is beyond cold, yet it chills not my dead bones,
The whiteness of that angel's flesh, so luminous and so pure…
Her face is so youthful, yet strong and aged like the stones,
The stones of Cairns, the stones of graves that line every cemetery shore.
Like the sands of the beaches that lie close to some great dark sea,
Like the pebbles in that sand, they doth now seem as to me…
I am most fortunate indeed, for she is not oft this kind to most.
She usually sweeps the soul from the body with her terrible scythe,
That she may steal away with their very spirit's immortal ghost.
She has laid aside her scythe, to be kind this night for me alone,
She has laid aside her terrible scythe, for there is no evil for me to atone.
I learned that day, so surprising to me that only the wicked so pass…
Or: those who hath yet to fulfill their destiny, those of a lesser class.
Her touch is no longer so chill, her flesh is no longer so very cold,
It seems that so much time hath passed, and my flesh feels so old!
I hath not so long to wait, for my immortal soul's final release,
For in the arms of the angel of death, I will be delivered unto peace…
Her pale face and her white hair are now stained with her bloody weeping,
And into my heart, a longing for my Heavenly Home was creeping.
Take me home, sweet angel, for my time hath come at last,
There is naught for me that I should so linger any longer here…
Nothing binds me to the present; nothing binds me to the past.
She moves to kiss me and I am glad, so glad that those lips draw near,
The kiss is like a passionate lover's kiss, and for a moment I feel aflame…
Then, I feel naught save endless bliss, and gone is my body's pain.
She lays my bones down upon the earth, my soul in her arms like a babe,
Her face now the image of a grinning bloody skull, her flesh withered and thin.
Yet with all the love of a mother, she carries me off into mists and shade,
Unto the heights of Heaven: where my eternal existence may truly begin.
Then, scythe in hand she will fly off away into the waiting night,
In search of more souls, that she may escort them beyond mere living sight,
In the service of neither the Darkness of evil, nor goodness’s Light.
The air is chill as ice, and the night both cold and long,
It doth seem to me that a long age hath come and gone…
I am waiting, so patiently waiting, for my soul's release,
When will the dark messenger come, to bring me peace?
That bright winged angel of soft shadows and gray mists,
Oh, when will my angel come, to offer me her fatal kiss?
The air is chill as ice, and the night both cold and long,
Yet in the darkness, methinks I hear of her lonely song…
It is both inhuman and strange; it seems never to cease,
The shrieking and wailing seem to come from the Abyss,
Could it be my dark angel, come to offer me her fatal kiss?
The night hath grown frosty cold, the air is become chill,
The strange singer is drawing nearer, her voice high and shrill…
The shadows close in around me, like great birds of prey,
The blackness of their wings seems to promise no rising of the day.
I knew that I wouldst never live to see another bright morn,
Now I am certain, for here cometh my angel, like a fearful storm!
I canst hear the rhythmic flapping of her black raven's wings,
The shadows part for her will, and by that power I canst see…
Yet, I have opened mine eyes only to behold terrible things!
She descends to greet me, her smile as beautiful as canst be…
Clothed in robes spun from darkness and from mortal fear.
Yet, for me she doth shed a single bloodily crimson tear…
The night is no longer cold; the air is no longer quite chill,
My dark musician is with me, her voice: no longer high and shrill.
She sings now the honeyed dirge as for a loved one lost to all,
And from her dark yet gentle eyes, a thousand red tears do fall!
She takes me up into her pale, supernaturally strong arms,
And to my angel I am lost, as a maiden to her lover's charms.
Her touch is beyond cold, yet it chills not my dead bones,
The whiteness of that angel's flesh, so luminous and so pure…
Her face is so youthful, yet strong and aged like the stones,
The stones of Cairns, the stones of graves that line every cemetery shore.
Like the sands of the beaches that lie close to some great dark sea,
Like the pebbles in that sand, they doth now seem as to me…
I am most fortunate indeed, for she is not oft this kind to most.
She usually sweeps the soul from the body with her terrible scythe,
That she may steal away with their very spirit's immortal ghost.
She has laid aside her scythe, to be kind this night for me alone,
She has laid aside her terrible scythe, for there is no evil for me to atone.
I learned that day, so surprising to me that only the wicked so pass…
Or: those who hath yet to fulfill their destiny, those of a lesser class.
Her touch is no longer so chill, her flesh is no longer so very cold,
It seems that so much time hath passed, and my flesh feels so old!
I hath not so long to wait, for my immortal soul's final release,
For in the arms of the angel of death, I will be delivered unto peace…
Her pale face and her white hair are now stained with her bloody weeping,
And into my heart, a longing for my Heavenly Home was creeping.
Take me home, sweet angel, for my time hath come at last,
There is naught for me that I should so linger any longer here…
Nothing binds me to the present; nothing binds me to the past.
She moves to kiss me and I am glad, so glad that those lips draw near,
The kiss is like a passionate lover's kiss, and for a moment I feel aflame…
Then, I feel naught save endless bliss, and gone is my body's pain.
She lays my bones down upon the earth, my soul in her arms like a babe,
Her face now the image of a grinning bloody skull, her flesh withered and thin.
Yet with all the love of a mother, she carries me off into mists and shade,
Unto the heights of Heaven: where my eternal existence may truly begin.
Then, scythe in hand she will fly off away into the waiting night,
In search of more souls, that she may escort them beyond mere living sight,
In the service of neither the Darkness of evil, nor goodness’s Light.
Published 6th Dec 2014
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6th Dec 2014 2:54pm
This is a fascinating portrait of an angel, Jessica. A seraph that will not be pigeonholed into being either an agent of darkness or light.
11th Dec 2014 8:35am
I am glad you liked this poem, Crowfly! Certain angels... especially the Angel of Death... are not easily constrained within simple boundaries such as "dark" or "light" nor can they be defined by our notions of good or evil. They are simply who and what they are, for better or for worse, and that is also, interestingly, what makes an individual unique even in mortal terms... the notion that they are who and what they are, labels be damned. Poems such as this one can be interesting when they reflect both divine and human individualistic natures with such clarity and the ability to reveal things about the self. :)
