My Angels, My Demons

There was brightness, 
then it was gone. 
steaming in the horizon, 
cannot hear the song. 
Dark lines in the distance of
What may be wayward birds, 
on an endless journey to the sun. 
run with the angels, 
onward, and low 
fall with the demons, 
everlasting and slow. 
Scattered, shattered, lightless, 
maybe cities, maybe ruin. 
Somewhere, a plane of continence, 
a way of ritual, 
honed and true. 
Dark nights form a resistance 
in memories skewed, 
sweat of the hour’s grace, 
the dew falls.  
Trial by angels singing, 
sharpened and low, 
judgement of demons 
hearkened slaves, to stains 
of ruin and  woe.

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