by Dean Friedman



Sprawling spired skylines, sparkle in the night

Sprinkling angel dust on everything in sight.

In the shadows far below, nestled deep within,

Lies a cardboard shanty town shaking in the wind.

Huddled in the darkness, strays outside the fold

Citizens of nowhere seeking shelter from the cold



Where have all the angels flown?

To their father's golden throne?

Leaving we of merely flesh and blood and bone

Stranded on the surface of this our fragile home.



Kings in crystal castles, feast on fortune's fare

While surly subjects seem to vanish in thin air

Red ripe rivers rise on falsely fertile fields.

While we all watch in wonder at the weapons wisemen wield.

Friends all but forgotten; memories grow dim

Prayers no more than whispers; sing a silent hymm



Where have all the angels flown?

To their father's golden throne?

Leaving we of merely flesh and blood and bone

Stranded on the surface of this our fragile home.



Somewhere in some city sprawled on some factory floor.

Tiny fingers spinning silken patterns for

Princes and Princesses, debutantes and heirs

Under some illusion that what they have is theirs

Whiled tethered to their stations lesser souls do yearn

Perchance to buy their freedom with the pennies that they earn.



Where have all the angels flown?

To their father's golden throne?

Leaving we of merely flesh and blood and bone

Stranded on the surface of this our fragile home.