BAD TIMES FOR ANGELS...

You cup his face in your hand, you trace the sigil on his cheek. You take the firebrand and circle his heart with fire, you whisper and mumble the chant towards his leathered hands. You smile at his broken ankles, at his crushed feet. He spreads his old and tattered wings, you smile at the ancient reflex. These are new times, times when angels are tragedies and victims, where elohim are accidents of birth, are drowned souls in the ether. Heavens are full of children, full of wide eyes, of sad mouths, of distracted forgetfulness. The world of demon and angel, the world of creature and elohim is an empty playground. Swings beat in the wind, sand whips and blasts at roundabouts with no end. So you gently place your hand upon his sharp and strained wrist. You smile at his far away eyes, at his pursed lips and streaming tears. You sigh, you look down at broken toes and splintered nails, then look away to dark purple horizons, to snapped trees and lonely soaring birds, bad times for angels. So you bind those streaming tears, those unthinking, unblinking far away eyes. No point now in healing, you just sit and anticipate.