The Recession of Our Lord

In a fitless rage an ark angel throws another from its perch
Like a bird with a broken wing the unfortunate seraphim falls through into the limitless quandries of self conciousness
Where all he thought about is drowning him
Where he could swim had never only flown before
And his talons claw to grip onto space
But there is no space solid enough to hold
And he tumbles and fumbles his way through time
And that rage filled ark angel smiles alone to admire himself in a hall of mirrors
As his brethren falls evermore into everlasting nothingness
Plummeting not to its death but to its everything its not
A reminder at the forefront of its mind of that mindless self indulgent priming
The waxing of its most sensitive areas
The cleansing of its eye sockets and the numbing of its gluteous maximus
Fog passes through it,
Wind rushes passed it
And the oceans waves crash about it like a thin blanket of water vapor
And as mere mortals are caught in the under tow
This unfortunate ark angel will relive it all over and over again
It does not despise itself, but it does despair
Its eternal journey onwards and upwards backwards and downdwards,
Tasting nothing for it moves to fast for its taste buds to sense,
For its skin to reflect,
For its mask to contempt,
Life rushes by it, the souls of a million lives trapped in a hades before it passes by its perch again
To see its raged brother/sister standing tall upon its talons,
Upon its perch,
Upon its glorious perfection,
And look here back at the undertow.