The prince of the power of the air Doesn’t even really seem to care Lucifer was in heaven once A shining light to his domain The he let his pride get in the way Was thrown out of heaven Taking one third of the angels with him Spreading there disease of evil & hate Not a cause for faith only evil Many today are being caught in the middle playing second fiddle There eyes are being blinded by Satan Eyes with tombstones in there head It’s the walking dead face full of lead They come to kill, steal & destroy This is their chief aim & ploy They disguise themselves as angels of light Blackened stench of caged fury in the night There is no escape for them my friend A miserable lot of sin with long viscous fangs That bite dripping blood off side They long to run away & hide From the true light cause they love the darkness Many follow after their plan Instead of ever trusting in the master plan
Mario William Vitale is a poet with over 1,000 toward his platform. Vitale was born October 23rd, 1970 in Bristol, Ct. Currently living in Wolcott, Ct where he helps as a care taker for his elderly handicapped mother Ann. Vitale is featured as a writer on Poetrysoup, Writerscafe & Allpoetry. Has a fan base on facebook with over 650 followers. He started writing poems in 1989 after the break up of his first girlfriend as a way to cope with life.
whispers.. velvet vibations taunt for what do we seek eyes, hands & wings faint laughter pause to a slow pitched sound angelic creatures in there manifestation of movement closer then ever before many evoke fear a cast of feathers drifting
Leaves on the trees turning from yellow to brown With a stiff wind soon on the ground Rustling, rustling A pile of leaves so neatly collected Beckoning me so they’re not neglected Rustling, rustling I jump I jump so gleefully
I find something beautifully heartbreaking about the sound of a string quartet playing in a minor key. As the first bow glides across the strings my heart moves in ways unknown to me. I close my eyes and imagine I
Fair Angels of Olympus, Muses Nine, That on its snowy summit gay recline, With other gods and haply the cynosure Of poets whom inspires your sacred ewer, O’erflowed with the ambrosial Hippocrene, The haunt of daughters of Mnemosyne. And Father