Come, child. I have a tale for you:
Every time lightning strikes, another angel falls from the Heavens above us; thunder is his roar.

An angel - a beautiful creature - but beauty set aside.
His wings are torn to pieces, peeled of his immortal hide.
His flesh is ripped and scratched and burned,
his eyes are squashed and mashed and churned.

Dancing in pain, pleading for skin to wear and eyes to see.
Laughing in terror of himself - he does not wish to be
Such horror! Our eyes deny it, we cannot comprehend.
He will, and has, to you, an empty, lonesome stare send.

Lonely as a writer, in agony as a poet.
He has a face so terrible, this God does not allow it!
Once he lived a life so gay -
Now, with us, he's forced to stay...

Eternity is his tomb, his grave, a single mistake it took
to take his Fathers love from him, to make him see, yet not look.
Centuries, millenia, a thousand years shall turn -
Yet the lack of light within him will forever burn.