I wrestled an angel last night.
She told me her name was despair.
She warned me I had wilderness yet to wander.
I protested, what about Egypt?
She told me I didn't want to go there.
She smiled and continued, telling me of signs and wonders, of golden calfs and temples within.
I told her the Temple had been built and burned and built again.
She offered me honey. I asked her for locusts.
She laughed again, rivers running with blood.
A trumpet sounded in the distance, seven times, then once more.
She seem afraid for but a moment, and asked how many days had passed.
I told her, as many days as there are sons of the blade on the mountain.
A lamb wandered by, it's fleece glinting golden in the swelling sun.
Her voice rang out in silence, speaking of miracles remembered yet unheeded.
Her silence rang out even louder, as though it were the ninth hour on the hill of the skull.
Mountains crumbled like dreams at dawn, forests burned like clouds at sunset, and the land cowered like a rose at midnight.
I wrestled an angel last night. That angel was myself.
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