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

with counter mechanisms
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

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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