Much depends on the fallen Angel. Having been an Angel, the fallen one knows ecstasy, leaps heavenward, but sings out of tune and ends up buoyant back in the boiling oil, the sticky liquid. Boning up on the good book is no defense against dark magic. Those who can’t wait for justice find themselves lost in art eh? That makes art a hell of a space high or low, lost or found. This has both ring and mirror, Miltonesque. It’s allegorical, of course; it is helpful to have a better understanding of how you square chronology with metaphysics and stay slippery in rhyme (very tasteful rhymes I have to say). Thank you for that conversation. It really helped. When Angel gets the celestial boot and goes looking for sacred loot trying to get back to the garden the stubborn fool keeps the cycle churning. That’s life in the big city.
Much depends on the fallen Angel. Having been an Angel, the fallen one knows ecstasy, leaps heavenward, but sings out of tune and ends up buoyant back in the boiling oil, the sticky liquid. Boning up on the good book is no defense against dark magic. Those who can’t wait for justice find themselves lost in art eh? That makes art a hell of a space high or low, lost or found. This has both ring and mirror, Miltonesque. It’s allegorical, of course; it is helpful to have a better understanding of how you square chronology with metaphysics and stay slippery in rhyme (very tasteful rhymes I have to say). Thank you for that conversation. It really helped. When Angel gets the celestial boot and goes looking for sacred loot trying to get back to the garden the stubborn fool keeps the cycle churning. That’s life in the big city.