Stricken Angel

The air is clearer up here can almost taste it, heaven knows.. just above the stair where skeins of rope-like hair lie still festering.. all in neat rows. Why was it to be? cast down, why? Here where they don't dream of flying or understand the simple rites.. the good in dying. Years now I wallow among them, though the forest still knows me. Trying a smile on, first in eons the rivers too.. they remember 'fore the dark modesty the arches in light and artistry.. There'll come a time Lazarus.., Aye, when they won't heed or recognize nor longer find need in us. And all the clocks unchimed will turn back to begin again...