They perch on the malleable architecture
of abducted dreams, agreeably dying, as
their faded wings tremoured against
colossal winds and unconquerable odds.
In great trepidation, they watch the phantoms of
intractable yesterdays populate
the world of what-might-have-been’s and
weep incessantly for their deliberate silence
that has now grown deeper, deep enough
to castigate their tarnished souls with
an inexplicable dark magic, but not yet
deep enough to wake them from their
own personal nightmares. They fear
to realize what they have come to realize,
and they shall never admit that fear.
They have forgotten how to choose
for themselves in their violent attempts to
choose for others. They have unlearned
their abilities to look for answers within.
Over the inane centuries of
misplaced passions and self-generated
cleansed, modified and justified—the
Lost Angels know not who they are,
who they had once been, or who they
will become, for the Lost Angles know
just one thing and one thing only
and that is what they think they want.