I woke to the possibility of angels,
neatly lined on my duvet.
The glow of laughter still present,
on petaled pink lips, as they pray.
A sight, these angels three;
Come down from the heavens
to sing to me,
of tales I have to sew,
places my mind has yet to go.
Fertile I sat, patiently waiting,
eager to hear it unfold;
spinning the threads , hung in my head,
looking for me to take hold.
"Within you lies a universe
of tales the world must know.
Take to pen, find the page,
it's time for us to go."
"But wait," I cried as uncertainty
took me by the hand.
"I haven't the words to write
such tales, I hope you understand.
My poetry is soft, the prose is lacking,
and I'm sure the language is off.
My rhythm has faltered, the rhyme has left,
And I'm afraid my courage is lost"
Her smile was so much softer than
the cooing of a dove;
She took my hand and led me here,
giving a gentle shove.
Through the window I tumbled,
waiting to hit the ground;
Listening for my breaking bones,
but nothing made a sound.
Eternity stretched before my eyes,
the crystal path was clear.
It washed away insecurities grasp,
so, too, did it take my fear.
I saw the vision in the angels call,
the tales I’ve yet to tell;
adventures of my many lives,
and handled it quite well.
You see there was no beginning
Or end, I simply had to start;
allow the words forming in my mind
to fall upon my heart.
Now I write this tale for you,
the night the angels called;
letting the words float through the air,
watching where they fall.
If you hear them singing now,
take to pen and write;
it's through the stories yet to tell,
you'll see your soul take flight.