How I wish I could too, rise above with the angels in heaven. To assend high into the the sky on golden wings. Ah so much happiness this thought brings. I reach for the sky with open arms and close my eyes and await my fate. But I think it may be too late. Mistakes were made vows were broken, and harsh words were spoken. Blood was shed hearts were torn, the angels look upon me with scorn. The gates are shut my hope runs dry, I beg, I plead, I cry. I cry to the angels to let me in it wasnt my fault, they made me sin. Cursed be the angels! I know I am good, I may not be perfect but that is understood. They shaped me with imperfections, flaws, and temptation, I was their creation. Why should I be punished for the way I am? How can they condem me? They should understand. As I look up to see they are staring down at me. Their faces seem to blur and their hatred seems to rise, but still I fall reaching my hands up to the blue skies. They now turn their backs and go away and now these once heavenly skies turn to a turblulent grey.
One reaches out to grasp shadows, and finds no grip. One slips, and shatters, and the pieces are collected and stirred into the batter of time, the witch's brew. And now they've made cookies of you. The best ones are right out of the oven, they say. Yet, consequently and paradoxically, the real angels are those things within, which men label Hell, which they fear. The salt in tears are one part of a process of transmutation. Absorb, Transmute, Transmit. Energy Never Ends. Some simply try, in vain, to insulate themselves from its free flow, only to find, by virtue of its repression, that the Going of Love has become the Violence, the Stagnance, of Hate. And yet: These are but words: Of which I say not: This is the Truth.
