The hurried mind is kin to Advent dreams
And darkness does to ghost’s what angels hope
Would be their mission; crafting fear, it seems.
Ghouls hearken now and meld their lifeline rope
To spirals, hoping errant sheep might wind
Along its tendrils; some might lose their way.
Preoccupied is Gabriel; her find
Is pure, while others’ load is apt to sway
Beneath the burdens of this season’s press
Archangels’ work is frantic in the stars
And shepherd’s crook is gentle herd’s redress
The infant’s cry is fertile balm for wars
If lamb were general and ghost be pawn
Then angels’ charge is nothing more; ‘tis dawn!
December 24, 2009