A Lost Art ☑️

Fallen angels 
do not wait 
for operations of justice

hell being too eager 
with impetuous desire 
liquid with fire

an ignitability
that is sticky 
and buoyant 

burning with sensitivities
intrigues and scepticism.

It grows and grows 
every feather 
a blue hotel

a flog for the marring 
a phantom ship 
a mouldering heap - 

Leaps at tens 
whenever heaven 

takes to heart,
but -

with defensive measures

boning up 
celestial treasures ?

Stubborn and tragic
the sympathies of magic
populate the heart

raises hell
to a lost art.

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