The ashes almost look like snow from my window.
They almost glitter in the blue haze of the TV glow.
She is tall and strong, she is the angel who resists.
She is the open hand. She is the mighty closed fists.
Winter will be with us through August, what more?
On TV she rights what’s broken, brave on that score.
I sleep too much, and the sun has gone to the clouds.
The war is over, but it’s fires and bombs still shrouds.
Mass produced dreams told us it was all for the win.
But the days are cold, and hope and love are so thin.
The angel on the TV, I still want to be, though I am frail.
Maybe I can find my wings or the simple, true Holy Grail.
I am frail and failing, but I still dream of an angel on TV.
I still dream of something more than a dead, poisoned sea.