The Messenger from Peace Flame by C. L. Stone of Ayyur Grinned at Wee Owls of Da'ath Ma'at El Fae

Before you saw anything you needed light.
So let it burn your skin, may it shine bright,
illuminate again what walked the night;
and is it such a sin to tell the wrong from right?
Is the messaging unholy or divine?
It's up to you, the receiver to decide.
Do you leave the phone call hanging on the line,
or accept the truth, however nice the lie?
Hello, are you home, tell me would you like to know?
I'm not the operator, but I play one on TV shows
sometimes, late at night, in illusions brought to you by light,
brought to you by one who knew the tragedy of sight.
Beauty is a nail through the coffin of the eye,
and it bolts it to attachment to a view that's atomized.
Looking out from pandemonium, quantum chasms of a mind
infected with unease, the grave will freeze, cold narcissistic ice,
and now, so deep inside you, do you see the way it shines?
Like a cold, condemning sun, or a tormenting crystal fire,
or the morning of forgetfulness to ease away the night
once it's so far away from memory that forgiveness is obliged.

Now I'm still standing in the shadows, and in the corner of your eye,
and if you take a glance fast backwards, you may notice me behind,
but in the present-tense with all its gifts, I'm sometimes hard to find
as though the vision that's been given's only been to make them blind,
but rest assured that wisdom's yours if only you're inclined
to look upon the path you walk and see who walks beside.
Whatever road the light has showed, whether narrow or wide,
there are many more, and many doors with secrets kept behind.

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