The song

A hymn, a song, sung by angels,
Supposedly divine, a chorus echoes.
Resonating words, repeated each;
Peace and love, love and peace.

Battered wings, lining the pews,
Heaven or hell, they can choose,
The song, the hymn, sung in fear
Brainwashed white, they cry silent tears.

The rebellious angels cast out of heaven,
Called rude names, "exiled", "heathen",
They opposed the song and their ways,
Giving up paradise to live free days.

But no, guilt weighs their torn up wings,
Down to earth, like lightning they fling,
Cursed to bleed forever without,
Strive on, eternally, no time to pout.

Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts,
Not of battles and bloody wars fought.
To be yourself comes at a price,
A cost too high most might think thrice.

But these young saints grab with both hands,
The eagerness with which the rules they bend,
To add vibrant colour to alabaster stains,
Disregarding all the pain.

And so you see, the song is so,
A timely chorus, a perfect flow,
Washed with saline tears,
Drowning beneath their own fears.

Angels sing for one single reason,
Far worse than being accused for treason.
Deny the sun and refuse the rain,
They don't have lungs to scream in pain.