Face on Mars

The path was there before anyone
human trod it.

A random formation of nature.
 
On the lofty cross the white-gowned angel
lifted her heels.
 
Your eyes wake from darkness:

At your finger's touch
the wreath of daisies
turns to ashes.
Shadow of a candlestick.

You were told it was all in you
deep at the bottom.
Nothing but revelation.

How many times have you died
and lived to see
the angel shedding whiteness,
the tomb of millennium open.