Monday, December 21, 2015

Angel smoke

their raven wing clouds
the day in mourners shrouds
ashes flick to ground
from angels on their cigarette breaks



the time to shed our clothes
throw away those dirty robes
as they hang on iron gates
we sink into the earth



their murky ink clouds
the grays they spin around
showers of ash rain down
from chain smoking angels on high



the moment to tear our clothes
to strip down and disrobe
throw them over the iron gates
and revel in cold soaked earth



















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