The Call of an Angel

In the darkness he beckoned.

calling me to him, like an angel of music,

or perhaps an angel of death.

But he was an angel,

of that much I am certain.

His voice was like that of the sirens.

I could not resist,

I did not want to resist.

His song told my heart stories of safety and love,

there was no reason for me to turn away.

I followedyes, I followed the voice,

like that of an angel,

until it seemed close enough to touch.

I reached out, wanting to feel the voice,

to know it.

Surely the source of such beauty

would be the most perfect thing

ever known to man!

It was the voice of an angel, after all.

When I reached the mirror,

I called out to the voice,

"Angel! Where are you?"

But the voice did not respond

it merely continued to sing.

Oh, that voice!

It was the embodiment of all things

pure and good in this world and the next.

I reached out, stroking the mirror,

caressing it with my curious fingers.

Could the voice be behind the mirror?

I called out again,

"Angel! Make yourself known to me!"

And this time, the voice responded.

"Come to me, my child. Come to me, Christine..."

I laid my hands against the mirror,

longing to touch, to feel, to know.

I wanted to see my Angel.

Then the mirror began to move,

revolving, spinning me behind the wall,

into the void beyond.

I found myself in a long hallway,

dark, damp, lit only by candles.

And then a hand wrapped around my waist.

My angel!

But I was confused

Could an angel be so solid?

For the figure holding me felt as solid

as any man.

But my angel was no man.

He was a messenger, a teacher,

sent to me by my father.

And yet the figure appeared as but a man.

"Come with me, my angel,"

he beckoned.

"Come with me Christine."