Angels of white with lungs of black
Blow billows of smoke all down the back
Of heaven which shines corruption free
As angels of white are clear to see
Pursing lips, cigarettes dangle
High above the incessant tangle
Of human affairs, smoking their cigarettes in secret.
When the school master of sorts does arrive
The angels of white scramble to hide
Watching the line of cigarettes dive
Through the dark, dreamy night
Leaving a scar with the stars that pass
As little cold figures of glass
Point, wasting wishes on streaks of ash.
Down fall the burning cinders,
Down rain the smoking stars,
Down swoop white like winter,
Catching beauty within the scars
Of tarnished olive branches,
Balanced on the heads of doves,
They spread their feathered wings,
Singing sweetly of morbid loves.
“Kill, kill, kill”, the chorus sings
And wears the dead stars like a pin.
Little birds are massive kings
When they define the sin.
From his home here on Earth,
The King of Glass observes the birds,
And ponders the scopeof the smoke star’s worth
As the birds beat with the damning words
“Kill, kill, kill”, then the Glass King thinks,
Draws up a bow, arrow in sync
Watches the point hunt high above
Bird meats bird,
Falling stars on falling dove.
Her beak touched and kissed the ground,
Quiet, silent as in prayer.
The King of Glass looked and found
No stars on her red bleached hair
Slowly, quickly, with grin of greed,
He brought a knife to her wings
He slashed and cut through the dead bird’s back
As the angels sat, smoked, and prayed
He took them from her feathers white,
And stitched them to his shoulder blades.