spn fic/poetry/thing: the breath and the power
Right, so this is about Castiel's childhood, and the rest, and then maybe also Dean. Ideas, words, and in some cases entire lines have been taken from various parts of The New Oxford Annotated Bible, Karen Armstrong's A History of God, Rudolf Otto, and this one post by lassiterfics. Also from just sitting back and letting 22by7 talk in beauty. Also from this one text I sent to dafnap and amonitrate
the breath and the power
Castiel, God, the angelic Host, humanity, Dean, (Castiel/Dean)
If the Word was God, then angels were the language. Vowels, diphthongs. Glottal stops. Gabriel to Muhammad one sura at a time.
The logos gave a master plan, composed of every letter. Each sound made flesh.
Sibilant sinews, a skeleton of syllables. I for an eye, emet in each tooth. Crafted like a paragraph, body of a child. Every child's body made of
holy holy holy
The Word made flesh made
a man,
with his hand against everyone,
and everyone's hand against him;
and he shall live at odds with all his
kin.
Every child's body made few of days and full of trouble. Brimming with the song, singing in haste, crafting language to speak in idiom. Folding noise into space and writing it down. Laying them low, each child of the Word, each child in the dirt wrapped in sentences and skin.
Multiply your prayers. Cover your hands in blood. Plead for the widow.
The Word will not listen, or wash your hands clean. But crack yourself open, an orifice, a c from an o. See the bend in your body, know the hands lay heavy on you. The taste of terribile et fascinans thick between your parted lips.
Listen, arise, come away, and sustain me. I am reduced to gasping, a breath bereft of language. My beloved is to me
a cluster of consonants
in the vineyards of En-gedi.
The beams of our house are El's,
our rafters are mine.
the breath and the power
Castiel, God, the angelic Host, humanity, Dean, (Castiel/Dean)
If the Word was God, then angels were the language. Vowels, diphthongs. Glottal stops. Gabriel to Muhammad one sura at a time.
The logos gave a master plan, composed of every letter. Each sound made flesh.
Sibilant sinews, a skeleton of syllables. I for an eye, emet in each tooth. Crafted like a paragraph, body of a child. Every child's body made of
holy holy holy
The Word made flesh made
a man,
with his hand against everyone,
and everyone's hand against him;
and he shall live at odds with all his
kin.
Every child's body made few of days and full of trouble. Brimming with the song, singing in haste, crafting language to speak in idiom. Folding noise into space and writing it down. Laying them low, each child of the Word, each child in the dirt wrapped in sentences and skin.
Multiply your prayers. Cover your hands in blood. Plead for the widow.
The Word will not listen, or wash your hands clean. But crack yourself open, an orifice, a c from an o. See the bend in your body, know the hands lay heavy on you. The taste of terribile et fascinans thick between your parted lips.
Listen, arise, come away, and sustain me. I am reduced to gasping, a breath bereft of language. My beloved is to me
a cluster of consonants
in the vineyards of En-gedi.
The beams of our house are El's,
our rafters are mine.