THE WAY OF ANGELS
Death
is a helicopter
flashing in the face
of time
above a green jungle.
Filth of war,
washed
by the tears
of my eyes.
The wounded
and the dead
lie
together, in memory,
forever
past time.
Both,
holding hands
and falling away.
It is the way
of angels
to travel all the paths
that lead us home.
The angels point the way.
We forget that they work
alone.
We remember............ ourselves
and only ourselves
in the darkness of wounded dreams.
When they carry us
home.