I wrote this poem and short scene for a school assignment. It was interesting, since I haven’t written something like this. I would love to hear how you interpret this.
I sought to find wakefulness
In unconscious sleep
Yet, how could I be conscious of
Needing to be awake,
When I stand in the midst
Of a dream?
He put a finger to my lips. Seeing him so close, I began to take in the glorious cast of his skin, his strange beauty, and I drew in a trembling breath.
“When you speak you make the earth beneath you weak. You make the skies weep because you doubt. Humans have always felt the need to question—and all of creation must humor you in your philosophical erring.
Being modernly inarticulate, I mumbled, “Um . . .” What could I say in reply? He had me, his words rolling over my mind like waves, their breakers pressing down their power upon the person in their path.
As I peered up into his eyes I watched his pupils dilate. Could he read my mind, thoughts streaming out in different directions like so many ocean currents?
As I looked his pupils gradually encompassed the sparkling rims of his irises, spreading to cover even the luminous whites of his eyes.
I choked, and stirred away from his finger at my lips.
“Hush!” He pointed towards the woodland path, with fairy-lights dancing to and fro, trees maintaining oddly symmetrical balance on either side, as if they were specially planted to form a line. Their branches whispered and sang siren songs, and my ears welcomed the music, my head reeled with it, and embraced its rhythm.
“It is beautiful, no?” came the strange being’s voice.
The entire woodland swelled and throbbed with that music, with that shadowy wonder.
“Yes,” I agreed, still unable to raise my voice above a breath’s volume.
“Anyone may walk through there whenever they choose. It is open and available, for you, for everyone.”
“Is anyone in there right now?”
So I wasn’t the first! I stared into the glen, shifting with the colors of dusk, mists wafting about like silver smoke, painting the trunks of the trees an ashy color.
“Go, for you will not be alone. You can enter. There is no one to bar you out.”
“It is like Eden,” I remarked, stepping close.
My companion gave a very soft laugh. It sounded strange, but beautiful. I tried to only hear the beauty of it. “Yes, it is very much like Eden. But there is no one to keep you out. You can sleep on the heather, and feast on the bountiful yields, and drink of the waters. It will please you so, nothing quite like it.”
I began to smile. “No one to keep me out.” Yes, I did like that. No angels standing guard, with glittering swords, no condemning glares that I had always imagined when reading that miserable chapter in Genesis.
But then a thought struck me. “Are you not an angel as well? Are you not one of the angels who guard Eden?”
He laughed again, but it was a more feathery sound. But a feathery essence has always been something of loveliness to me, an aesthetic quality that draws me. I looked up with frank curiosity, studying my companion again. I took in his skin, his terribly strange eyes. Note, the adjective “strange” is highly conditional. I could not decide the meaning of it, and how it defined those mystifying black orbs, no white showing.