The Music That The Angels Do by Listener
I want to be the insulin the needle medicines instrument. With every increment, killing it, filling it, then revealing that. Although presumptuous with the outcome where doubt runs in large sums. I speak the words given to me like spouts run. Whispered through the moon, sky, fire, water, and the earth. To these ears and eyes aspires this father to birth. Listeners don't be so sure when that time comes a knocking. That you haven't been watching that wrong clock. Tic talking to you, telling you it's alright, it's ok, follow me, forget what you're doing let's all go this way. But if you listen, if you really try to be that silent person. You'll know that you need some more time for rehearsing. You're on the clouds now, go there, don't worry for us. You're where you dreamed about, sung about, don't think about us. and although grim words reap what they sow. As the angels sing their songs so you know. You think you know, but you don't because we all have to die. and we fight it, we fight it like we can win against the sky. Or time or death or youth or earth or what we have. It's what the angels do for all it's worth, so here's a stab. It's not rap, or rock it's not pop or independent. It's the language of love, and death with every remnant. Scissors cuts paper, paper covers rock, rock crushes scissors and it all falls apart. People it all falls apart and you're left holding your heart. Massaging it hard, but you can't get it to start.
And they sing for us, but we don't want to hear it. They watch over us, and we hide our own spirit. Well they do it all for love just to keep us brand new. It's the music that the angels do. Oh they sing for us, but all we seem to do is hide. They watch out for us, and we keep it all inside. See they do it for love, even though we're all used. It's the music that the angels do.
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