The 8th Dawn

In my youth,
I knew of their great light;
an unsearchable star,
without flaw or impression,
purity beyond mortality, confession.
And come what may,
righteous naivete,
false angel or dragon to slay,
I strode with the fullness of my way,
to the celestial sight.

In my hands I held creation,
like living lightning, holy current,
and wielded the wonders,
you will yet behold.
Into the infinite unjust cold,
I thrust my skies, spoke of thunder,
and spent all the frustration,
of a thousand years might.

Now, my hands have been contented,
held back from further works.
Yet the seventh day is nearly ended,
and the petal of dawn clearly lurks.

The seraphim gather high above,
as winged angels of silver and gold.
Inscribed with power, wisdom, justice and love,
waking from rest, shuddering the heavens,
a rare sight to behold.