Burn the smoke to the sky:
Glorious meadows of blue
sewn to the shadows of men,
flying lowly to not scatter outward.

Tampered equipment sparks up
tried men too weary to start.
Flashes of bold come to the Eye;
brilliant visions wall the mind.

Chipped by loving touches to scabs,
nursed from lights across the plain.
Bricks lie cold, growing brittle:
shattered gates to the inward bound.

Blockades rack up like clouds;
like rain to the people, insight
joins with warm sparks and sounds.
(Angels could be under our noses).