Angels of a Forgotten Future

We are your home-made angels,
the abortive remains of a thousand
dreams, a million mistakes.
Used daily and desiccated,
we befriend our crutches:
the pills, the needles, the drinks.

We are all the things we’ve been fed
and purged of, every forgotten
or overlooked moment: when pain
became a river, became an artery;
when our nightmares stared back at us
from the reflective surfaces we passed out on.

We are rubber tubes and electrical tape,
chemicals and emptiness, our wings shriveling
in the blasted heat of our discontent.
Waste cells of the past, we nail ourselves
to any rotting icon of need,
slaves to the twisting prison-cribs
of regret snarled in the cold dead
fingers of our dying passions.

We wait for the signal that isn’t coming,
the blinding flash of salvation, the searing light,
relief from that eternal itch just under
the surface of our skin. We wait
for that moment of hollow joy,
that purest relief
before it all fades into white.