Walter C. Edwards

Do angles go to sleep and cry,
in our misery,
no love, they fear for us,
or do they wonder why,
we pretend so well,
fools of a broken sky,
heaven and earth,
lost somewhere,
into the depths of twilight,
dawn creeks in,
as towers of gold fall down,
forgotten souls sailing no more,
flying as they enter,
rose colored gowns,
ashes only left to be found.