He saw angels in the night. He didn’t want to. But they wouldn’t go away. Devilish angels. He only had hints of what they wanted from him; he caught certain words in their teasing whispers. They stood out among their indecipherable mutters.
Their commitment to haunting him was almost religious. He inhaled more of his special air into his lungs, veins, brain… and wished them away. Just as he did though, more appeared.
Such playfulness in their eyes, eyelashes, fluttering as did their wings, their pupils veiled by false intentions, bodies dipped in the translucent honey of artifice. Lying, an art. Angels, the masters. Preaching to his fears, ridding him of desires. What is left of him, a shell.
The “Prompted Ramble” posts: 5-10 minute freewrites (with approximately 5 minutes of minor editing) prompted by the first sentence, in bold. (They force me to write something fun besides poetry more often.)