Mysoulwasdustedinthecityofangels.

The city where angels reside. The cooridinates are met where edges begin and deserts continue on. From Zeuss's point of view a silk screen of glittering fog hovers over the tallest tales that lie within the city's borders. Where lost souls migrate, dancing for the perverse atmosphere all are emerged in as they climb my city's steps. Stars rest in the eyes of the ones before them rather than in the pitch sky. The venecian grains align with pavements where his troubled children gather together tasting the horizons's infinity, indulging in the numerous drum beats of frequency surrounding. Vertical segments covered in chipped pearl blocks out a sight of endless reminiscence, speaking to us, "Hollywood." The magic is found within the secrets we keep hidden from ourselves, this city that seeps of infinite oras is everything exempt from reality, but a fiction storybook with tattered edges. Stories within stories inscribed among five points along the walk of fame. The starving child in all lost angels feed off the possibility of the essence life is thought to condone. The city's title as a poet is well deserved, where everything becomes enchanting at the strike of the ticking dawn as golden dew reaches window panels shadowing through eucalyptus. Held for me in a cavern my soul in the depths of Melrose Avenue, coasting through Santa Monica Blvd. till I get to the cleansing waters south of Venice and Lincoln. I find myself once again in the city where I consider all survivors the dreaming vikings, the city of angels.