"Almost Angels"

My ancestral eyes cannot outline
a light shot directly within in the withering dark
And the angels wait at the gates
of pearled splendor before the universe
appoints finite titles to all
The optics so calculated trump these wings of desire
and as I gather an ecstatic excess of information
only a quiet, studded white wall foreshadows angelic faces unknown
Faces that I hope to meet soon
Faces that breathe as I do
And I can't remember the early permutations of my sighs
The black wall, devoid of texture,
on the border of my optics and mind,
the link between vision and thoughts,
sees me express the build-up
Oh, so many, many shapes, patterns,
landscapes and faces
as I surrender a need to sleep
They form around the pupil,
never lingering within, never direct enough
to stare at and maintain
Facescapes and lands grow meaninglessly
towards completion, reaching only the
limit of a freezeframe before
sheathing themselves with the next
Like children's toes dabbling teasingly at the blank spherical wave's grasp
A game of maintaining dry feet as the waves contort endlessly
However, I am not always a child, and I do not laugh
as my limbs skim fleetingly across the endless charity of the eyes of the storm
At least the angels I see will be able to fly
soon enough