Most guardian,

       Faith amputated bell never told their story angels aren't good company to eye of this life's storm keep, Like inner blind compassion eye no disguise for their willing pacifist witness to the trauma invoked upon your epidermis state of once enthusiastic being, Beyond G-d's filtered allowance to enter our tangible existence the hell cauterised damned never to bell toll fly again wings burnt off forever stinging with hatred wounds spend their infinity recounting the memory ache shrapnel of their counter plane of being parts, Hiding in the most rogue shadows of heaven's third layer, closest to the sulphur of the apocalyptic realms of brimstone, Vengefully crafting inaudible psalms their transparent lips stuttering to post life mortem limp their ethereal tongue's report of watching another...

       Crimeless child join the congealing fate beaches of the dead, Where G-d's motionless abandoned all faith ships on the shores of miracles are being as an ocean, Heaving empty temples into beautifully wounded hands is the mother throbbing at the edge of karma's sea, Before realizing the conjured failure of nature's purposeful curse; 'That we're all counted as one,' Already counted as lost to the realms of brimstone.

     And so the angel becomes court of mirrors libel, To stand before the invisible throne of a G-d who no longer cares, Idle as the misery throws of reincarnation ruin lives over and over and over and over... Repeated to stress importance, The wingless before the end portrays all life as maleficent and beautiful, Worthy of minute pre mortem miracles, For hope on both sides is nearly lost.

In earnest anticipation of,

Wondrously Perishing