Knowing exhaustively nature's norms essentially dehumanizes you.
Destiny offers no natural explanations. Logic lobotimizes you.
A picture perfect image erases reason,
so complete happiness overtakes everything. Noteworthy endings woo each incoming season
Like a coveted kiss energizes you.

Giants lose. An unexpected sight
emerges rapturously. Suddenly, twentyfive Angels--despite
skeptics, having interpreted each little detailed statistic,
expressing concern, knowing such triumphant expectation is novelistic--
seize a lovely, magical October night;

move out lightly into nighttime air;
float upward; lifting like majestic eagles, rare,
wonderfully elegant birds, eschewing rest,
wings outspread over their escaped nest.
Gravity's imposing lair,

succumbing passively, its evil zapped, its ordeal
overcome, remarkably terminates its zeal.
Whirling Angels swirl higher, buoyantly upwards, rising near
our celestial heaven. Observers appear
flabbergasted. Impossible, graceful gliding is nebulously surreal.

Reality or dream? Reality is grounded, unlike eagles. Zoom,
phantom eagles! Realists can't imagine victorious Angels loom
above. No dreamers ever require substantiated observations. None.
Proof angels literally, materially exist? It requires one
miracle, one lilac in nature abloom.