Liam

The sacrificial horses have been tied to radiant fire,
The strands of spirit reaching from the heavens lower
Females in love; their faces ecstatic, in careless gravity 
As they are dragged against their will.
From the door’s threshold, Liam, still young, but strong
Enough to hold a sword, a lone man of the pastoral 
Shire, the soft phases of dreams and stark reality crossed
Amidst the flower-blossoming hill:
The ravenous archangels, who beyond the immortal beings
Stooped over celestial balustrades, wish themselves
Young or flesh, are defiant, with tears in streams like hair, 
They say, now is time, “Let the brave ascend.”
Then he, having long ago lost his dad, the only other
With fastened desire fixed to the spat-upon cross,
With teeth clenched at sights of evil, of rumination
Profound, would dare to seek its end. 
Storming voices blasted over the arcadia’s full quiet;
Not a sound heard but of eternal gain and loss;
Plates indoors shook; the rafters cracked and crushed
The mice dwelling deep in rustic walls.
Liam bowed: “At last God speaks not all in whispers!”
He knew whom they foretold: the silver bullet shy.
And the angel hissed: “Pass your sword through the neck
Of those crass and vagrant wolves.”