The angels come down to late,
their feathers crawling with mites and eyes flat as snakes.
turns out their wings are so white because they use bleach
They came down from the sky, but you think they fell.
The smell of ozone lingers in their skin,
and Glory Glory Glory sounds like a punchline.
They promise altars and arks;
Their prayers sound like static, stitched together from dead languages.
They hum lullabies in reverse, backwards tongues behind broken smiles.
You ask what god they serve.
"Ours," they say, as if that should mean something
Their halos flicker—cheap fluorescence trying to imitate holiness.
The light around them peels paint from the walls.
They cup your face like a blessing, but their hands are too cold, too tight.
You are not surprised when their throats are torn open,
revealed to be hollow.