WE ARE DARK ANGELS IN THE MAKING

The bones and ash of generations, of ancestors without beginning, without end. Angels in relief, monsters in belief. We stroke ego in the understanding that it won't turn to dust and ash. We are always the example, always the exception, never the rule. We live ten thousand lifetimes as a moment, ten thousand lifetimes in a breath. Our arms flail in anxiety, our legs stand still with indecision. We are the time bombs of the corporeal, always allowing for more, always disappointed. We are the fragments of apes and men, dark angels in the making. We have vision, but no focus. Our eyes see the endless mirage of self, an endless unblinking mirror to our condition. Happy is the day when we are forsworn, when rainbows are real and aged blue butterflies storm at heaven's gate, their wings - rolls of thunder in the ether. Nothing is real, everything is imagined, and yet everything is real, and nothing is imagined. So, like footprints in the mud we walk the distance from start to start, across ten thousand lifetimes, scattering the bones and ash of our imaginings of self after self. We are dark angels in the making, always in the making.