Angels

My heart is on that familiar precipice, eroded ledge of time, poised to discard what may be my last memento of hope in the state of humanity—precious people!

I am ready to let it slide off my palm, along the creases that first uncovered and treasured it for so long. I look out, but there is no horizon. There is nothing.

I press my hand instead to the rock reverberating underneath me. Humanity has come to this: our souls ground into wants, our wants ground into power struggles, our power struggles ground into ideologies, our ideologies ground into explosives—all culminating in detonation.

But these reverberations are not the detonations of men so common in our time. I look again and there are legions of angels marching, marching out to fight for humanity. There is a Rider mounting His horse. The first clops rain down on the asystolic heart of this world, on my heart upon the precipice.