18 Angels
Eighteen angels burn,as the wheels of progress and vengeance turn.
Eighteen angels try to fly,
with blood soaked wings.
As black fills the sky,
eighteen angels lay dying.
The Beast is awakened,
from it's slumber.
As the drums of progress,
thump and thud in a sadistic cadence.
The skies black as ink,
ring out with thunder.
Our only light,
our only hope.
is ourselves.
No GOD, No morning star, can save us now.
That warped sense of progression,
the same thing that unleashed hell on earth,
the only thing that can provide salvation.
Please login or register
You must be logged in or register a new account in order to
Login or Registerleave comments/feedback and rate this poem.