Angel's Breadth

There are no angels.

Just pretty faces and chime tune voices.

There are whispers - theirs, but they don't know. Like the warmth they shed, that they don't feel. Like the promises they make, that they never really made. With smiles, they speak of paradise. With each breath they promise bliss.

When their soft lips open, there is only what you want to hear. When their eyes smile, golden, there is only what you want to see. No, not girls, not women, but angels.

How do you suppose tears roll down the face of the sun. How do you suppose others see, when all that remains when tears become vapor, is the salt that might as well be sweat.

How do you suppose we listen, when their words are a song and the tune is merry. The truth of their sentiments drown. The pain in their hearts is lost. To us - lost.

Angels remain like salt remains, when the soul of the tear has departed. Why is it that, for the angel we long. Where does the soul's beauty make home?