A blind pilot flew me in
last night,
and as we passed into
clean light,
I asked him how it was
he knew my name.

"My darling," he replied,
delighted,
"you're an angel whom my Lord
provided
to take me now into
the resting place."

I argued, "But I don't
believe!
If there is a god, I can't
conceive
the reason for the hell
we've all been through."

My blind companion slipped
away,
leaving me to face
the fey
with little but conviction
and untruth.

I, an angel?
It could not be,
I knew the greater depths
of me,
the thoughts an angel
never entertains.

But my pilot flew
without his eyes,
fate was pulling
for my side;
was I just a puppet
to some deity to blame?

"Caroline," he called

In vain,
I wanted naught
within this game
and so turned my face away
from open doors.

"You'll find your way,"
again he pled,
"but do it now,
before the dead
arise to carry all your fears
to shore."

A blind pilot flew me in
last night,
I dreamt before
the morning light,
but I know, of course,
that it was just a dream.