the infantry have checked my portals
and there, standing in the orafice, was your impeccable shape, untouchable, but nonetheless tangible in truth
they called to you
said I was harboring an angel
and when I bowed to you
they disappeared
fleeting in the hinting moniker of a flute
so Dear One
My Angel
where does flight take place?
and which castle of gold, do the infidels trade their wounds?
I have heard of heretics
but
I have heard
the truth
and now I am not opposed
to Listening to others
for all they seek
is you
I Love You Beloved
Your Beloved
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