Scurrying away, that darkening blight.
The devil had fleed, fleed from my light.
And under his arms he embraced the wings.
Blood drenched and broken, nowhere to be seen.
I looked at the sand where angel tears had been
weeped.
Then looked to my bed where reality sleeps.
I then picked him up dead in my hands.
And I somehow felt fault for the blood on the sand.
His expression was lasting with fear of the end.
But mein eyes were caught by feint marks on his skin.
Then I realized he's been cast down from Heaven.
Tatooed with sixes in the absence of seven.
I awoke in my bed. Sweat drenched my sheets.
I couldn't move an inch from my head to my feet.
I beheld mortal death in that cold desert sand
With wings in my arms and a knife in my hand.
-John Ratliff
