Wings That Do Not Stop For Sleep

They are tireless wings
That beat no retreat
And do not stop for sleep—sleep that might be theirs,
Or sleep that should be mine.

They flap about and fling their prayers,
At my too-attentive ears,
At my too-retentive head,
At my too-demented thoughts,
At my too-lamented soul.

A constant pounding, sounding and resounding
Of their wings is all I hear.
Of wings that do not stop for sleep.

I seem alone in my angel-troddenness
As to look to other ears and see no sign
Of discomfort due to a flapping.

No other mortals seem to crave to clap
Their hands upon their ears and shout “Enough!”—
Time for sleep. Time to nap.

The rap upon the ears,
Like a nun’s rapping on the knuckles,
Or an undertaker’s knocking at the door,
Continues.

Winged angels sit upon my lobe
And regiments of seraphim
Dance among the clouds that hide my daydream.
The rays of Reason intervene,
Fail to shut out that siren hymn,
That siren noise,
Of Rejoice, Rejoice.

The call of altars past
Is echoed and echoed
By wings that flap so fast,
So long,
They do not stop for sleep.

If only angels’ hymns were more convincing,
Perhaps I’d choose to end the struggle,
Receive the grace and take the leap,
And be whisked (the pain less wincing,
Than to be bludgeoned)
By wings that do not stop for sleep.