A Lost Art ✅

Fallen angels 
do not wait 
for operations of justice

hell being too eager 
with impetuous desire 
liquid with fire

an ignitability
sticky and buoyant 

burning 
with counter mechanisms
intrigues 
and righteous skepticism.

That grows and grows 
every feather 
a blue hotel

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

Leaps at tens 
e'er heaven 
condescends

takes it to heart,
but forestalls then -
uncorks the wary

betrays disillusions 
defensive parries,
insidious celestial 
my bloody Mary - 

Stubborn, tragic
the sympathies of magic
populate her heart,

raises hell
to a lost art.

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