upon this path, angels appear dressed in rags that sag and stink like rotten shoes. we cringe when we meet them, and count their words for nothing. yet gently the angels whisper as they limp by our side, and complain of a backache born of past regret. slowly they seek to build within our bones a new faith to heal the wounded words that spill out of hearts like an old habit. so, though, to the heavens we look for miracles, right by our side, the angels whisper sweet words that can makes rise again. if only we could listen, we would hear what they have to say.