our better angels are dead —
slaughtered in the night by the old false prophets,
scoffing down whatever cultish claim is theirs
and in the clamor they consume some truth
to shit out lies and serve them on some silver platter,
like unwitting cannibals
they are
who eat not to sate but to exceed,
more love for the cutlery than what it cuts,
and eyes blinded to what bleeds:
strange that angels can so readily forget
they once were angels
lost now in their lusts and licentiousness –
not of flesh but of the grave desire
to withhold themselves of what they really are
(or cast aside from whence they may have come);
the better angels here and now are worse
as prophets of what profits from this curse,
and though they scream and shout for recompense
as if they can digest these bitter truths,
give them this, their liberty or death,
none the wiser that these two are really one.
