Angels are quite ample cause to cry.

Joy requires one to be awake, Adjusting the heart's ambience to bright. Some prefer the dark, as is their right, On grounds of agony, and to forsake Not only bliss, but all that's blessed by light.

Love of life at times requires death

Given angel's wings, where might you fly? In what sweet heaven might you find your love? Unwilling to be bound, where might you move, Lost between the wonder and the why?

Eight days the light continued on its own: A miracle, they say, but not more so Than ordinary lives of flesh and bone, Consuming wicks burned ashen long ago.

Only night can make us whole again.

Angels are quite ample cause to cry.