This morning I read about me wrestling an angel.
And of the dream.
About the ladder reaching to heaven,
threaded with angels, ascending, descending.
This life, here on earth.
Who has not wrestled an angel?
All night, till the breaking of day.
Pressed close as lovers.
Consumed in the fetid sweat of the flesh,
the terrible reek of power from an angel.
Thy name shall no more be called Lieven.
Rising up, weak and spent in the morning,
a strange name branded onto the brow,
a nameless horror still clinging.