The voice of God called out to me one day. It was in the dirty fingertips and the greedy hands of everyman silently facing the awkward experience of reality. The eyes of God gazed down at me one morning. It was in the scent of the dawn, roses strewn on the horizon, glistening like the bedewed petals underfoot in the frost-covered paths. The breath of God fell upon me one night in the first stretch of darkness before the hours waned anew in a waxing morrow. It was in the curtain falling across the stage of life, echoing the swansong of Macbeth. The head of God bent before me, crowned with diamonds and thorns, golden-haloed. It was in the sun setting purple with orange bursts brittle in the sky. The wine-warmed lips of God kissed me full on the mouth in the twilight. It was in the melodic caress of my lover’s touch that dusted itself along the piano-keys of my vertebrae, tuning the consciousness of my skin. All the entrances and exits, all the bows and encores, shaped the mystic figure of God in the cosmic crucible of my imagination.

The music tears at me; it stabs into the muscle and lodges its bullets in the bone. The seasons change and return, reignited like the fires blazing in the barren fields of the moon. Time threads on through the abysses dug by the civilizing hands of man, and History is made in the leftovers of the ravaging, bloody jaws of Nature as she wears on, donning the costumes afforded her to fit her passing mood and age. Memories erased and repressed, and I cannot find a single drop of happiness in the muddied puddle of the past that remains from the ocean of Time that once flowed so full to flood in my mind. The calligraphy of his voice aligns with the harmonies of the most divine experience of heaven, the comprehension of which words cannot explain, but only the tears staining the page of my face can record the passion of the transcendence felt listening to this eternal, primal song. There is no redemption in the material world that has designed its own church and sacrificial altar for its own selfish purposes. Salvation is only half-perceived in the renewal of Nature, and only fully granted when one looks within to the spirit divine in the flesh, that gives life to all being; the lighthouse of God on the sea of all Creation.

DOMINICK MONTALTO is a freelance copy editor pursuing full-time work in the publishing industry in an editorial capacity. His educational background is in Literature, Art History, Philosophy, and Religion. He is a poet and critical prose essayist, with several publishing credits in both genres in print and on the web. His literary field specialization is the long 19th century from the French Revolution through the early Modern novel, with particular focus on the evolutionary changes of the Gothic, British Romanticism, French Symbolism, British and French Decadence and Aestheticism, and Orientalism. His religious and philosophical interests focus on the various sects of mysticism, as well as Christianity, Hinduism, and Buddhism. Overall, he continues to hold a strong interest and love for the different aspects of the arts and humanities.