Saint Teresa of Avila

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His thoughts were as a mystic dreams alone

And maybe, thus, a pure validity.

His loves were like a many legged, high throne

That rules a cosmos of aridity.

When mysticism takes a wandering heart

On journeys in between the sheets of love,

Unwritten diaries can only start

Recording all the numbness left above

The pain that levitates hereafter with

A hashish-like soul chorus from the wings

Of angels singing with a devil’s myth.

An agony inside a seraph sings.

  The dead who went before him like his son

    Will wish that they were like a drugged up nun.