Something done long ago and forgotten,
swept under a carpet of hate and self loathing.
Sitting in fashion, passionless being in style.
Angels flying by offering candy and dreams come true;
disguised? It seems to be the way with men of fashion.
Don't misunderstand, tis not the angels flying false,
rather the dreams on an ever warping course.
Trickery most foul! Trickery well deserved.
Karmic resolution or tragic revolution?
The line is always blurred from drunken power on such things.
... for men of fashion.
But how to be out of style?
Focus on the dream and catch an angel.
