When the flight of an angel hits turbulence
lightning from heaven creates a disturbance.
Broken light falling through cloud torn lace
as an angel’s umbilical is severed from grace.
Fallen angels stand at the edge of the day
casting a dark shadow over those at play.
Too late to understand heavenly rules,
fallen angels sing the song of fools.
With winged spirit of corrupted mind or deed
they use two ways to send shadows at speed;
the candle or the mirror casting fear or terror.
Graves may be the footprints of angels in error.
In your dreams hear the drowning angel’s voice,
between light and darkness at the portal of choice.
At the gateway to the edge of dreams,
brushing reason’s weak welded seams.
the edge of space where angels fear to tread,
occupied by the fallen of which nothing is said.
Treat well the fool met in the chill-night air.
On feeling the wing of madness pass over,
talking nonsense beyond reason to decipher,
having stared across the abyss of despair,
Who knows why angels should fall,
but pity the fool who had one come to call.