The sickness, the sickness of angels is nothing new
I have seen them crawling like bees
Flightless, chewing their tongues, not singing

Down, down, down by the bus terminal, hanging out
Showing their legs, hiding their wings
Carrying on for their brief term on earth

No longer smiling; asleep, asleep in the shade of each other
They drift into the arms of strangers who step
Into their light, which is the mascara of Eden

Offering more than invisible love
Intangible comforts, offering the taste
The pure erotic glory of death without echoes

The feeling of kisses blown out of heaven
Melting the moment they land