Rise

Smoke rises. So do flames.
And so do tempestuous waves driven by the wind.

Ah! Wind.
Think of kites, balloons, planes - paper or metal, craft.
Everything that rises, loves wind?

Then, I need to make friends with the wind.
But what about me?
Have I wings so I may fly;
soar on the gales?

Can eagles’ wings sprout from my back,
or must I stow a paraglider’s gear?
Must I, perhaps, become as a balloon
pumped up with hot air…

I like wings.
Wings that shimmer, iridescent.
Catching the morning’s glow.
Wings that would phase from light to crystal
crystal to mana; mana to chaos;
chaos to song; harmony to El.

I want nine sets of wings.

So…
How do I get them?
I know nine might be a stretch,
but I’ve heard test, of three.

For of the seraphs, hath they written,
that they had six wings –
with two they covered their faces,
with two they covered their feet,
and with two they did fly.

As man, how do I begin?
Whence shall my first pair come?
Test, I pray, another man’s notes.
For the prophet, Selvaraj, didst write:
Being still, didst I wait,
till eagle’s wings brake from my back.

Fix my heart on Thee.
Set my affections, and gaze, on Thee.
Quiet shall I be; till mine wings come from Thee -
I shall be as You are, Eloi.

Why hast thou come; and
what dost thou seek of Me?
But gifts bestowed; or Mine heart true?
Thine gifts bestowed, and Thine heart, Eloi.
For to this end shall I have Your gifts:
that by them, I see You.

Amen.