Billiards and Billboards

The wingless angels of demonic races

Are watching from the wings

With blood-stained faces

Like a wide open road spread out

Between a million trees

I see them kissing with their masks on

A glass of scotch in hand

And I can't trust anything so far

From this century

So far from light in these

Disassociated states

Thought goodness was a solid

But their halos fade by day

And your scales have turned into paper mache

As we fight for the reins on this

Sleigh ride into obscurity

Poor by way of three