where are they now?

i. the grey-clad angels walk hand in hand, passing by rows of identical, unlit houses, in a neighbourhood that's removed from the main city attractions. The angels hold hands and unravel their wings, spreading them wide, laughing, chatting, playfully throwing jabs at each other, happy and light and golden, because it's only three in the morning, and no one is out to see them in their holy glory

ii. seraphim, teaching in schools and universities, glasses adorning their glowing faces, their silver hair pulled back in buns, braids and everything under the sun. they hold a laser pointer and write out bible-long mathematical equations on the green board, the chalk crumbling and smearing on their dark flesh. They have quiet voices, but burning gazes and words that hold wisdom eons older than any human could ever imagine

iii. puttos (the mistaken ones) trying so hard to make themselves known, their names forgotten, confused with the ugly ones, the cherubim, handing out leaflets on the streets full of information on what is what and what is not, their eyes big and blue and green and brown, their golden hair in coils and curls and locks. When they come back home, they drink cinnamon tea, stretch out their legs and watch cartoons on tv, wondering how could it be

iv. thrones and ophanims have weekly gossip sessions in abandoned, brown churches and beautiful, rosy cathedrals, when they are empty and echo-y and grey, of course. The thrones, the taller ones, with longer faces and lean bodies draped in many cloaks, bring cookies and aloe vera drinks, whilst the ophanims bring with them human magazines, and flick through them as they wait for everyone to gather. Once they're there, their voices are an amalgamation of golden bells ringing, of songs and chorus. They speak in a language known only in the old heavens, the gossip of pop culture, celebrity news and recent celebrity deaths padded out by the smoothness and elongation of their angelic vowels

v. standing under red lights are the dominions, the beautiful women, the haunted ones, their hair as black as the inkiest night. They shiver in the cold, their mortal flesh still mortal and too thin and just a shell, their grand wings in glamour and pinned back, aching to be let out, to be stretched out, like the angels do, because they're different, they still have their freedom. They'll stand there and wait until a customer comes by and swoops them away, for a few minutes, if that's okay

vi. the principalities work in hospitals, the white, sanitised surroundings reminding them of their long-lost home. They yearn for something they once were as they trail down the sparkling halls, their uniforms donned on, hair tucked back, wings invisible. what a shame. when they have their break, they pour out of the doors and take a minute to smoke, the poison filling their lungs and calming them down, soothing their anxious, trembling hearts. the principalities have long forgotten what it feels like to be great, but sometimes, they have dreams and flashbacks and strange déjà vus, and visions and hallucinations. many of them think they're ill, something wrong with their brain. but they're just images of what once was

vii. the archangels cuddle each other in bed, the plain duvet tangled around their slim, long legs, the colour of milk and chocolate. They are open with each other, arms bared, hearts on their cheeks, fluttering eyelids and parted mouths the colour of pink summer and cherry lollipops. One kisses the other, lips like velvet, skin like silk. They text the principalities 'when r you gonna be off shift? Come and join us' knowing full well that they'd never come because they're ashamed of pure love, of love that is not contained between just two

viii. the virtues are fishermen and women, gathering by the side of the turquoise rivers that are the hidden parts of cities and towns, where there is peace, glittering bright, soothing their minds. They fish for hours, chatting amongst themselves, no more than glorified, elongated small talk. Sometimes, rarely, one of them says something that makes the other's eyes light up – light up with memories, with nostalgia and with sorrow at what once was – but those moments usually don't come, or are swept up by the rising wind. they inspect the fish they catch, knowing their angelic touch could never really harm another being. they collect a few of their rainbows scales, the rare currency, and let the fish go back to their home, the undulating waves. when it gets really hot, they take off their clothes, but stay in their frilly, lace underwear, and swim around, letting their wings get wet and weigh them down, the most tangible evidence of their origins

ix. they are here. and they haven't left

_____

a/n

(format as in the lowercase and sentence structure is very much intended)