When the iron angel visits,
cloaking you in her thick presence,
do not tremble and do not forget
that there are deeper realms where
she cannot go: through the cavern
beneath the base of the rib cage,
where the darkness is more ancient
than the starry midnights of
younger, more innocent evenings.

Find that deepest chasm and dig
until the darkness purifies the damp
air, which carries the mineral scent
of your molten core. Feel beneath
your feet and you will find
a door—the one you've feared
to open, knowing that
your mortal self will not survive
the furnace of your own
untempered soul.

And when she floods the cavern,
severing any hope of returning
to your dim and tepid hinterland,
take heart that in terror
you may open the door
and be stricken half-blind,
unfolding into the glorious
spring of your new life, branded
by the burning sun.

Every angel is a messenger.
This one was sent to shepherd you
not away from darkness, but
through it, shedding what
you could not carry down
the corridor between here and
your next waking dream.