He was walking at night mixing himself with the shadowsnRunning blue veined caged tight fast past the flesh windowsnAnd he was not expecting anythingnNot the angel choir inside his headnOr the litmus test of dovesnAnd there they werenAnd he felt the rolling fever hands of light upon himnFelt the beady eyes of the night upon his backnAnd everything he said turned into something elsenEverything he said turned into something elsennAnd he said, What kind of beast am I?nAnd he said, Who brings the tablets down this mountain?nAnd he said, Is this where I live?nAnd he said, Ah, sometimes I feel so full.nnAnd a voice answered saying, nYou are an aerial hung up to the Divine,nYou are a beach for the waves of the world to crash on,nYou are the spilt wine...nYou are the spilt wine at the table of the gods.nnAnd through the wet streets of the citynWashed bloody with the warfare of the ghostsnThere is a shining somethingnThere is a shining somethingnAnd death is only one of its facesnLove is only one of its facesnAnd he said, I will be a testament to thisnI will be consumed in thisnI will be a run of sparks around the coils of this labyrinthnI am the roar of the bees in summernI am a winged victorynAnd this is my epiphanynnI am a winged victorynThis is my epiphanynnI am a winged victorynAnd this is my epiphany.n