Our street is undisturbed; a portrait serene. An arrow's shaft protrudes from the darkness where death pangs inflate the gasping cries. Some vagrants-- others celebrity, and meanwhile, I can only hum that song. I'll give them all a show. Funny, I've never seen the angels sobbing like they gambled on sunrise and cringed for an eclipse. Cosmic responses come to obscure my sanity. In a room of dead Gabriels I linger. Some can still beckon me: even now, as I sleep, they whisper.