Angels and Architecture

Are we not blind-registered children, tripping over our future tails? Sight unseen enabled for the will of night prevails. Within the cone of silence curve the angles formed obtuse, at odds and plainly hidden in the shade of the recluse. Feeling numb along the crumbled brick, cement and mortar Braille; callused lesions blunt the tips and rip out the fingernail. If opened to accommodate the scope of love's domain, the arc-light blinds so fiercely slamming eyes wide shut again. And all the time in brilliance shine their halos fired intense, yet we, enslaved to self denial reject the evidence. For the sake of nothing ventured breeds the compost of conjecture, means we look but cannot see the angels in our architecture.