all these little halos
collecting like rings of dust
and hope that once shone on their rims
has now all but been lost.
every person i can feel
and every soul i grasp
has trancended into something unreal-
artificial, and it never lasts.
whatever all of this could be
the angels have yet to give me wings-
so i can fly above and see
my damage on all everything.

all these little halos
were forged for angels yet to come
all the angels, they let go
and now they're burning up in the sun-

and i am the death stalking you
waiting for all the cherubs to arrive
and i will usher in a new end
and the world will soon slowly die.

the midas touch?
a sick twisted way
of thinking about it,
i guess.

03/31/2003

Posted on 04/01/2003
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams