A spent bullet, lies in a ring of smoke.
A spent cigarette holds onto its last few orange embers.
A wasted condom at the bottom of a garbage bin;
A lifeless, disowned, forgotten body on a dirty morgue floor.
A frown on the sweaty brow of a fallen Angel.
tired of the souls He carries on His shoulders/
Of all the pain. Without a sigh He walks on/
for there are many miles to go, and He was robbed of his wings.
Flying is a privilege of the elite,
the commanders, the planners, the plottists, the Queen bees.
But the souls are thirsty so they drink his blood,
open his veins and bury their mouths, their tongues, their white fangs glsitening in the glare like sharp cut diamonds.
But they have none; And they suck Him dry.
Rest is too much to ask for/
for the damned, must walk eternally,
through Hell, fire and brimstone.
