Azrael

Sickness, infected to the depths,
Toxic and devoid, virulent to the world,
Clinging to a life long since past,
Fever choked thoughts, delirium,
Grasping at the straws of my sanity,
Resting in shallow grave, waiting to die,
Yet endured did I, too stubborn to expire.

Adrift, rudderless in cavernous flux,
Swept along as paper in wind, powerless,
Unable to seize the helm, assert control,
Lost and alone, besieged by my illness,
Immutable, unchanging, perpetual.
Until she came to me.

Her eye's pieced the veil of my tenebrous condition,
A light in my darkest night, terrible and beautiful,
Azrael, my angel of death.
Hands joined, she flew me to my Jerusalem,
Her embrace shook the foundations of my dark construction,
And in her arms, revelation. 
Death had found me at last, no more hiding,
So die i did, a traumatic, horrible demise it was.

A ghost now, haunting my former stations,
Loitering in places of once happy existence,
Drenched in memory, past lives, so long ago, eternity...nearly
Lingering in unknown spaces,
Someplace between the death of my past self,
And the birth of who i wish to become,
A destitute wasteland, sun baked and empty,
But calming in its submission, its honesty, 
Ghosts on the road to Damascus.