Emerging from the stale air
into the serene wind swept night
a blue monolithic structure of religeon
punctures the the shroad of black and white
all other colours exist in the tortured minds
the chosen walk with eloquence and finesse.
Listening to peoples inner most thoughts
as they pass them by
touching hidden fears, wrapped in a gossamer of dream
they are the messengers, to us mortals remain the unseen
ascending to heights, where only angels dare
iconic figures, standing high above.
Watchful over us, intently listening
to the dilemmas of the scared
we do see the chosen ones, they are the angels
their empty souls lay bared
bringing the message, which needs to be heard
We are blind and deaf, bordering on the insane
we languish in our own despair
walking home to often in the cold and rain
we mortals are nothing, but to the chosen ones we are everything..