The angel sits upon an altar,
his toes play misty in frigid waters.
The angel doesn't know he is chosen
to ram Titanus into an ice head
Far removed is he from his mother's birth pangs,
oblivious of North Atlantic's shears.
In its stead he's sees a chandelier of many colors
bewitchingly spinning over Her Majesty's floating palace.
It's then the helmsman-angel hearkens to the low
and nearing rumble played under the band's soulful lament.
In the key of thud we all stop dancing,
that emerges chords of ripping steel.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment