With every trace of humanity, there is a change. The growth in infrastructure is a growth in thinking; each generation improves and evolves, agile figures with minds of gold. Silver tones linger around Earth, each year a flick of a hand: passive yet expositional.
Despite this improvement in making, there are still degenerates. Generations of totalitarianism and uttermost cruelty show ape-like traits, a wave of a aggression carving blood on platinum plates.
Humans are nothing but ivy. Nothing but the embryo of a premature flower: fragile, soft, aggressive... blooming. On a path to the underground, spirits chatter on traceless stones. Stairs composed of thoughts of wonder and awe reveal paths to heaven unknown to us.
In a scarlet empyrean, angels fly. They blossom and sigh prettily, flawed wings glimmering with iotas of electrons: negatively charged yet so, so pretty. Ivory and ebony intermingle in a utopia free of discrimination, and it's a journey of letting go. But not really.
The wings are scarred. Intricate swirls expressing agony, the process of defeating one's inner demons, the signs of hope and an optimism humans would find peculiar, flaw velveteen material.
And yet, when they fly, the heaven blossoms. In this world, comfort leaves a tasteless bitterness on one's tongue. But somehow, comfort is the only tangible thing written on one's wings.
