The Touch of Anguish

I died, a ghostly texture, abandoned in my soul. The hurt was
Excruciating. I lost breath, afire, a slave of sorrow. But I
Dared to touch an angel, if only to exhale. And albeit my
Turmoil, thick as molasses, I sheltered prayer, the blood of
My cross. I was unborn, a specter in my spirit, trekking
Through the desert-city. My soul, thrust with poison, the
Steepness of my scar. Wherefore, I nurtured anguish, filled
With death, alive in my misery. Something akin to malaise,
Punctured my psyche, but I dared to touch a seraph. Thus
Ripples tore through my being, the texture of thorns. And my
Eyes, swollen with pride, the tears of my splintered glory.
Wherefore, dejection was deeply praised, my melancholic joy.
But hope was sublime in my nature, wistful in its magnitude.
Wherefore my soul, athirst for resurrection, soaked in anguish.