Touched by a Harbinger

Some fancy words, to allow the more primitive of being

Harbinger, you touched me

From desuetude tales with redolent reach

Raising my halo, once armored

Beyond all the charm of infallible speech

Filling my lungs, punctured

Drawing my breath, vast

Raising my every hair

Beneath its phantom limbs’ cast

 

For touched, I won’t preach

An’ imperfect tense gorged

To signify a world visible

 

And touched, I can’t teach

An’ opulent heaven waiting

I can’t answer, what was never known

 

And in tongues, I won’t conflate

An epiphany that’s erstwhile -

With the wherewithal of penumbra’s sun

 

For touched, I touch Scintilla

I become pyrrhic, I pretend a halcyon