The angels at the end of the street call this town P a r a d i s e.
And they will tell you stories about hollow prayers and damnation
That tastes of a soul and a slant of lips.
The saints crying in the rain and calling it g o d.
And the demons with phantom pain beneath their shoulder blades
A memory of something holy.
In this town, the streets are painted by martyrs with poor pockets and rich hearts.
And the sinners and the saints pass each other on the streets like old friends.
Saying hello and not really seeing.
Hundreds of lonely souls trying to forget
About their chipped edges in the glow city light stars.
in this day and age, our ghost towns have people in them.