Paschal Lamb

The Paschal Lamb lays down with the Lion of Judah,
and I am mystified by bonfires in the Savior’s eyes.
They dance and flicker like the Shekinah’s purifying
flames, drowning Pentecosts in redemption, until the
Holy Spirit stitches together new, manifold bodies
from nebulas, and we eat manna and drink star dew,
and we are walking through Israel’s deserts spreading
the Logos. Christ is blooming with roses from his
thorns, and he parts his robe to reveal the Immaculate
Heart pulsing with infinity, suddenly blood and water
gush from my side wound, his side wound, I feel the
Roman spear puncture below my right breast, in the
rib cage, and is this stigmata or something more? I
am bleeding out into Yeshua’s arms, and we eat each
other’s flesh and drink each other’s blood, he says,
Lo, we are the Feast, and behold, the Bridegroom
nourishes His Bride, and as his heart enters my
teeth, its fragrance is a pungent rose garden and
it blossoms into deliverance, and the petals drown
me with the scent of Heaven, and we kiss, and mingle
the oil that comes from our corpses, just like Saint
Catherine’s relics wept spikenard, and for three days
we descend to Hell as our bodies know death, and the
demons flock around us and say, Why did the Father
deign come here? Carrying the Magdalene in his
snow blossom arms? And I, the woman of seven devils,
look with love upon the Fallen, and Christ leads
the just from Abraham’s bosom to New Jerusalem,
and with a Judas kiss I betray Samael, pointing him
out to this perfected human form of Michael, for
Christ and the Prince of Angels are just different
iterations of the Word, blue light of salvation, and
the Light of the World is all, so Satan weeps, but
out of Pride stays in darkness, and I follow Yeshua
out of the cave, and the garden of Gethsemane blooms,
and I cannot, dare not, touch his flesh, for he is
Ascension descending, sacred fire. Bride of Christ,
he says, and draws the vesica duplus on my brow, the
DNA double tailed ichthyus, and honey, when he asked
me to ascend, to leave my fears behind, Christ was like
the taste of mint juleps on a perfect summer morning,
he is all dawn, all radiance, and to know him is to
love him, and to follow him is to be part of the flock,
but why he keeps manifesting in apparitions and visions,
raising my thicket of cursed roses up to trees where
I sleep, Sleeping Beauty, to have Satan burn the roses
to the ground, waking me up, and the Devil kisses my
lips and says “Angel, it is time to awake. Till the dirt.”

Healer and Death, Michael and Samael, Yeshua and Lucifer.

I do not sleep much anymore.