the Voice of God

The blind fury of a windstorm, whipping long chestnut hair against my arms,
clouting my face and cheeks and streaming eyes that look without sight into the blackness too complex to fathom.
Legs pointlessly supporting no one
as I float over waters and rocks and clouds and oceans,
invisible in the blackness of night.
Wind pounds me, caresses me, rattles me, shakes me, embraces me,
and I stand on air, with closed eyes and unshed tears, my arms raised up.
Fingers grasp for the clouds a thousand feet up, that run across the invisible sky
in a mad fury that is the child of wind’s rage.
It is a scream that pounds through the cracks in my visible window frame:
a scream that takes me out of the calm, quiet interior and out into the blackest night where wind screams unfounded curses of power into my ears
and drags baseless tears out from under my clenched eyelids;
they drip off the tips of eyelashes still closed tight.
It is the voice of God, of a thousand hungry children, of a widow,
of a war, of the dead and of the dying; it is the voice I hear each day,
crying out in that bone-chilling rattle for something it can never have.

It is the eyeless hag, the dumb beggar, the hopeless traveler.
It is the plea for pardon, the wail of the condemned, and the
Repentant keen of the sinners and saints alike.
I hear them yowling in the blackest night, with wordless cries and
Voiceless songs, until it is too loud to listen.
It cracks inward, and for moments I think the walls themselves will crumble in sadness,
But it is only wind in the darkest night, no cries or yowls or wordless pleas.
I am alone.

No condemnations over oceans or flailing limbs falling from broken shoulders
Into abysses tonight.
It is all silence in the artificial light, silent progress that listens in reverent and fearful quiet to the wordless screams of the savage night.
No modernity can erase the primal gasping that scrapes up the shingles and tears at the shutters.
God’s prayer it won’t get in, God’s prayer it won’t invade the false light that colors my reality.
I fear the monstrous calling, the baleful calling, the imagined calling that echoes in the blackest night, though there is no reason to.
I am the calling of the windsong, I float above imagined oceans in the invisible night, surrounded by the quality of deepest black.