ANGELS SIT IN FIRES OF OBLIVION

Angels sit in flowers of fire, angels relax in a furnace of flames, they smile at melting flesh and dance in the cinders of men. Angels have eyes that sparkle, but are as hard as a diamond. They stare from corners of rooms with cold steel eyes as they watch you suffer, watch you suffer with unblinking steel blue eyes. Black is the nature of a cold heart, but fire is the permanence, the heart of the flames, the flowers of the torchbearers. Cascade the embers, wave forward to the bonfire of men, the motion of fire and bitterness, of flowers and darkness. Angels have a taste for the sadness of men, they clothe themselves in our turns and punctures of life stories. We are the symbiot of wings, the naked flame of the watcher. We are the consumed, we are the flowers of fire, the embers of dust and then ashes. Angels sit in fires of our oblivion and fear nothing.