The Golden Age Of Angels There: concealed in chaos Is Liberty, and the Lie. There where Angels propel The engines of today’s sacrifice— For tomorrow’s reward. This is a sorrow, This is a dumb effigy. There is no liberty in those engines They are propellers of old storms; Which die in me, my hands of fortune. I am the engine! What falls on days Too numerous to count? There’s no way to an Angel’s rebirth But to destroy all of his crimes against man and God— In full time. This gestates all knowledge Of his passage throughout Worlds. This formless thing we call Him will hang from all we see The essence inside will be restored, By deaths raw decay, by the peace of wild things Once more in the golden age of Angels.

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