Finding wings in the City of Angels.

There’s a mural painted on the side of a wall
down the street from where I live that reads something like this;

“We are each of us angels with only one wing,
and only be embracing each other can we fly.”

So without fail, each time  on the metro line I pass it by
Instinctively I look into the brownish skyline
of this so called City of Angels
and it comes as no surprise
that I hardly ever see any angels flying.
And I doubt that its ever for the lack of trying.
So I Survey the faces of the single winged runners
Around the streets of Pico and Normandy where this mural resides.
I find shattered expressions of regret in once hopeful eyes.
or maybe Brief glimpses of weary lives
that have grown tired of believing their once promising lies
That flying was  a guaranteed part of this american dream, turned nightmare
Look at what they call the Nickel and you might find the dreaded blank stare.
On a row that is relegated to angels who’s wings have been stolen from mid-air.
Living scars on backs that tell stories of damned hopes replacing wings that were once there.
Despair. Not a self-inflicted wound. Dreams stolen from dreamers
straight from the womb and never returned.
Thieves taking wings and selling them ebay
this isn’t turning a nickel into fifteen cents.
It’s “if it don’t make dollaz, then it don’t make sense”
And single winged flyers embracing


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