WE ARE CRADLES FOR DARK ANGELS

We walk through dreams where faces are shattered by strokes, where hips are disjointed and chests are caved in within and without staggered intermittent heart beats. We are cradles for dark angels, presents for demons with pursed lips and eyes that never water. We are all constantly aware of the end days, the journeys dried up end, the dead paper chain men, but we stagger and we campaign as if these were always the golden days, the withering days, days where whisperings of death never counted, never mattered, never occurred. Slow dances with angels and demons, tango's with the nephilim, tall as a building and as hollow inside; twisting with fallen ones, burnt wings and clawed hands; waltzing with the crossroad helpers, burying those ten year needs and desires where lives cross, where strands of ether cross, where skies sultry with vision...cross. Clap those hands in time, shuffle those feet in dust, thick with the death of creatures untold. We dance and hum to all the days that were, to all the faces that were, to all the hearts that were.