Needlepoint angels bleed,
lifting the sky blue crayon
from it's conformist box.
only to turn gray in the rain.

Mascara-clotted tears fall
randomly, like the work of
a desperate artist, starving,
in a world of corporate soulnessness.

Needlepoint angels bleed,
compounding belief in falsities,
coloring their stained glass gray,
with my sky-blue crayon.