The Angels are a hurricane

ripping through the barley grain,

the dust bowl stirs a saviour’s name

summoned forth to bring the rain.

 

On such wings news takes flight

the down-trod flex their ancient right,

across the red tops headlines scream

you wake to find it's not a dream.

 

Apparitions shine like turds,

follow them into the drain

they wash away like promised words

dispersed as if they never came.

 

A covenant made, a covenant broke

cares not if the power comes,

to tongues of trust or tongues misspoke

it's winning that's the only sum.

 

of all that matters, ever dear

you are not in their mix,

it's in the broil of all you fear

that you will fall for all their tricks.