Angel Wings
My wings are trees, dependent on sunlight and rain, with roots that wrap around my shoulder blades and plunge deep through the muscles of my back into my lungs and heart. I need to breathe to stay aloft. My heart needs to flap in time with the beats of my wings.
The bones of angels are hollow. They’re made from pure stardust metal. After an angel dies, the body is burned. The hollow bones of the dead angel are left behind, warm to the touch. They’re turned into musical instruments, white flutes of angel bone, that continue the song past death.
This is all that heaven is; the song continuing past death.
Next time, Noah, build a plane.
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The bones of angels are hollow. They’re made from pure stardust metal. After an angel dies, the body is burned. The hollow bones of the dead angel are left behind, warm to the touch. They’re turned into musical instruments, white flutes of angel bone, that continue the song past death.
This is all that heaven is; the song continuing past death.
Next time, Noah, build a plane.
tags