Dancing angels pass the sun,
Their silly souls ensnared.
Make homes in the soil,
take naps in the tall grass.
you toddlers with wings.
The empty church sings it’s own hymn,
an echo of it’s simple servant’s whimper.
An empty church who’s only tenant pays rent from the outskirts of atmosphere.
A chapel dances when it’s lonely.
Trapped souls can offer no obstacles;
this weathered wood can improvise.
Blue turns grey to purple,
and purple black.
Count the stars if you wish to know their numbers,
feel free to chase the ghost.
The memory of that light is just as so.