Angel Obliviel

He comes softly,

a shadow in the noon of thought,
bearing no sword,
only the velvet hush of forgetting.

Promises fade in his cloak,
like ink left in the rain;
he whispers,
“Did God really say…?”

Obliviel steals the end
from the beginning,
turning harvest into seed
and seed into dust.

Yet he is no enemy—
only the trial of remembrance,
the weight that makes
the act of faith a lifting.

For when I wake,
and call the name I AM again,
his silence cracks,
and the Word burns brighter
for having been lost.