by Dean Friedman
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Sprawling spired skylines, sparkle in the night
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Sprinkling angel dust on everything in sight.
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In the shadows far below, nestled deep within,
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Lies a cardboard shanty town shaking in the wind.
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Huddled in the darkness, strays outside the fold
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Citizens of nowhere seeking shelter from the cold
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Where have all the angels flown?
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To their father's golden throne?
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Leaving we of merely flesh and blood and bone
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Stranded on the surface of this our fragile home.
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Kings in crystal castles, feast on fortune's fare
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While surly subjects seem to vanish in thin air
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Red ripe rivers rise on falsely fertile fields.
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While we all watch in wonder at the weapons wisemen wield.
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Friends all but forgotten; memories grow dim
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Prayers no more than whispers; sing a silent hymm
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Where have all the angels flown?
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To their father's golden throne?
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Leaving we of merely flesh and blood and bone
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Stranded on the surface of this our fragile home.
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Somewhere in some city sprawled on some factory floor.
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Tiny fingers spinning silken patterns for
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Princes and Princesses, debutantes and heirs
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Under some illusion that what they have is theirs
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Whiled tethered to their stations lesser souls do yearn
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Perchance to buy their freedom with the pennies that they earn.
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Where have all the angels flown?
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To their father's golden throne?
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Leaving we of merely flesh and blood and bone
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Stranded on the surface of this our fragile home.
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Where Have All The Angels Flown?
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Dean Friedman |