sirens in the sky

shouldn't be riding on angel's wings, floating with sea treasures stolen from the dragon king whose loss has caused deep animosity, the tides rise to swallow sirens bemused with heavenly voice turning hearts into water - following the depressions, caves, gravity does her work. no longer chained at sea, now they play a game behind a silver lining, then the rainbow nothing. clouds form shapes like tornado hats sweeping the heated streets with a wail: the galloping horses break at lines crossed, with knights no longer wearing armor for metal cast become trampled with hooves from mad horses unable to tear away gazes fixed on missions lost. naked men wander in deserted roads seeking truth, then the tides rush in to engulf dusty plains eager to be washed clean, thoroughly scrubbed, with metal pots and armor bent sizzling in acid rain. hot tears from angel's eyes pouring from invisible lines crossed, their flaming swords melt into a cauldron spinning on tip toes. worshippers kneel at glory untold when rainbows break their silence, silver needle turns dark - pricks the heart whose beat thuds like a beasts whose horns have been cut off, ripped out, discarded into silence at the center of a growing storm cloud. her voice is the many echoes of sirens riding clouds, their tales are the vaporizing tears from dead angels whose wings have been taken. then merry men swim in the frothing lava, filled with angel's bones, tears, dust - the song is high and mellow, low and fervent, flaming tongues glide past skin, bemused stares at lyrical pieces dropping from dark needles raining from heaven's gutted bowels.