In the end of the world,
Will the Harold Angels sing,
Or spit?
In the end of the world,
Will my tongue speak wise words,
Or shit?
In the end of the world,
Our final respite.
In due time,
My gaussian stares will turn
The leaf litter
Into an impenetrable barrier.
For the Heroes of yesteryear,
To bathe in.
And fuck in.
And call the wild calls they longed to call but never called and now will call and now will call but at what cost?
What cost?
What cost?
What cost.
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I have only one question. Who is Harold Angels?
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ReplyDeleteWell, in traditional christian liturgy, one would refer to them as the "Herald Angels", but I wanted this piece to relate more to the common man; therefore, I attempted to create an allusion in which I contrasted the Holiest of God's minions with a theoretical common man, who I so cleverly named Harold.
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