Light Work

The angel with no wings, just tattoos on his back. A son of light that stays up way past the civilization night and still shine during the day. The sun and he are one. Picks up his unanswered mind and makes a mark on humanity's skin likes bullet shot from gods gun. Swings above existence's pendulum. Searching for souls, but all he finds in eye sockets are vacuums. Creating impastoes with his tears on the soil. After all, he cries ink. And it leaves a razor scar on the silk of his cheeks. The angel with no halo, but just a crown made of rusty thought. That fall like rain on scrolls. Ideas are written manuscripts for a coming generation of degenerates. And each thought like the bread crumbs that guided Hansel and Gretel through the forest. But the media is a flock of crows trying to eat them before time. So he keeps scurrying them away. Once scared of the crow, now he scares the crow. With co ordinates fixed, the compass points inwards, Leading zombies closer to heaven's gates.  So now the chem-trails are angry with his wisdom and Zen. But guess what? they succeeded, cause we drink the blood of intellect from a cup who's brim has been graced by many lips before us. Well, The angel with no wings or a halo has to mistrusted before he can fulfill his soul purpose. After all, who said enlightenment was all sunshine?