Shooting Angels

 

Most of us

We try

To scratch out

A living

With our broken bics

Blood and ink

Dripping meanly 

In a vague attempt 

To trace the idea 

Of a future

From somewhere 

Deep inside

And paint it 

Against the world

With its cruel way 

Of crumbling dreams 

Just before 

We reach them

Or wake up 

Or both

 

And we struggle so

To make sense 

Of this endless 

Nightmare 

Envying the wings

Of birds 

with one eye

And shooting them

From the sky 

With another

Whilst all the while

Setting things

By the angels 

And the demons

The snakes 

And the ladders 

And somehow 

Missing the irony

That it's all

A game

In a lid-less box 

With the rules 

All messed up

And written backwards 

 

We struggle 

So diligently

So persistently 

With all these things

Forgetting we are 

Playing 

And that somewhere

Along the way

More often than not 

We should be 

Having 

Fun