Angel

I knew a girl  
whom it hurt to look upon.  
She was a moving form of pain:  
a pillar of fire.  
Her soft hair made me ache.  
Her walk was a dagger,  
her smile like a brand.  
Every word she spoke  
was heaven's own agony.

She was so beautiful  
it transcended delight.  
She took beauty, and turned it  
into something unbearable.  
She became, to me,  
a source of mystic knowledge:  
that a vision can be so good  
you almost wish it never was.

I learned from her  
the way of the moths,  
who long for the light  
that burns them.  
How like a flame she was.  
How divinely consuming.

I cannot even describe it.  
Instead, I speak of the pain  
and hope you will understand:  
for it was a good thing --  
so good, it became bad:  
bad for the limited me,  
good for my true self.

A beauty like that  
tears you out  
by your optic nerve,  
and rips away all complacent being.  
What is left cannot be pictured.  
I can only tell what happened  
to what was left behind.