Seraph Song

Our guide, even unto death

----------------------------------------

They talk to us through the thunder of soul song.

The angels.

They don’t just dwell in that pristine, perfect palace

many have called haven.

Heaven.

It doesn’t take a master of music to know the heights

and mountains of harmony pouring from golden

tongues and lips, every song of death and pain forgotten.

Here, we will only sing of joy.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

Of love. Melodies of sheer triumph.

Victory.

Share in that victory with us. It is your victory too.

I didn’t know the human body could harness and hold

such light. These angels look like us.

Like me.

One of the glorious guardians approaches me,

gazing on me without looking down.

I am your protection. The cloud when you fell.

The blanket when you were racked with wet, raw tears.

Your higher self.

They don’t need wings to flirt with gravity

and its merciless cousins—grave doubts,

grave fears. Bury them and rise with us.

Above it all.

The seraphs mingle with the colors of sky,

almost indistinguishable from the flight of birds

and the plunge of faith.