With the weight of a world upon his wings, an Angel took a breath and sat back. 

If it weren’t for the bloody ruins, he might even look relaxed. 

Death sat upon one shoulder, Power upon the other.

Any kindness Death showed, Power would smother. 

With one last look across a broken world, he lay down like a wounded deer,

while Death held his hand, Power whispered in his ear
“At least we’ll have Mars.”

And though he was dying, the angel did laugh. 

And laugh

and laugh. 

Until Death cut through the violence, then replaced the loud silence, and took its turn to whisper

“When you don’t make the trip to Mars and you don't drive one of those flashy cars; when your prayers aren’t answered —not by Jesus or Buddha; not even the Pope—there’s something you will always have,”

and that thing is called hope.