The angels come and go. Alone, they are pure white. Fluffy and full of peace. The accumulation is when things go dark, when the wall cloud appears. Like an angel army, when we need it the most. Righteous rain, cooling winds, our friends from the skies. They are locked in our minds, we know who they are. We are among them, they are within us, we breath them in. From lungs to blood to brain, it is truly divine. Inside coming out, working against the outside coming in. Through our own eyes, with their black pupils and glorious colors. With their optical abilities, with their desires. Through our mouths, from our guts. Spirits are for drinking, drink them up.
The operation operates with biotechnology. Clouds, the angels, the rain exist by the most basic of all elemental combinations. H2O. Essential to our food supply, critical to beauty. Ice cools the poles, steam regulates the pressures, and water is water. Infusion is our confusion, the complex and contained. Angel White walks the old downtown streets. His guitar hangs ready, a cigarette burns between his fingers, he wears paisley pants. His blues feel real.
Most are harmless, they just go by, watching. Sky surveillance is easy for them. They float, form, disappear, divide. Some boom thunder, the same ones that shoot electrical bolts. Those go away too. The angels are definately from the clouds.
Evaporating into love.