In a bedroom of angels
we are drawn on a canvas
of virtues and aesthetics,

framed to an easel
of pigment filled tempera
and sketched in sackcloth and ash.

These our lips, a burnished coat
from the fingers of Uriel's hands;
hands that daub predilection
in pre-adamite strokes of rapture and pain,

and beneath Gabriel's brush, our brow,
the apercu of fallen feathers
sketched to immediate minimalism.

All colors on a seraphim's palette
are Raphael blues, Israfil reds
and Michael, life's luminist

cast in starlight's chiaroscuro,
shaded greys to our nature
dabbed with the tears and flesh

of Azrael's pinion - our artisan
bent on cubist dreams
and thumbnail skeletons

captures our pointillistic space
and forever paints these posed creatures
in eternal revision.