On now forward, flying your wings in blue azure sky’s stream.
Angels of Prey, fluid are your wings flapping as rainwater, crying like silk.
Your quests are still, your voices a dream.
What terror your eyes make, swooping your scorn down on a
supposed heretic.
Were not the convened saints heretics in your eyes at one time or
another?
Come celebrate! Rip mortal men’s minds out to satisfy your hunger
for invasive procedure, of knowing the truth or the lies within them.
If there is an everlasting Middle Age, an Age of Ignorance, the question
for us mortals below is do we believe in saints or are we Angels of Prey?
Dear readers, this is my third book of poems, and inside are a special collection of what have turned out to be not only MY personal favorites, but also the favorites of many of YOU. Some of these have never been available in print before...
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Sandie