Covered in rust. It’s hard to fly.
I remember when we were young. Still shiny and clear.
It was easy to fly and be pure.
Then the world’s tarnish came as we went out into it.
And it rained on us.
We are iron angels, black and red from the rust.
Coarse skinned from corrosion fuelled by our own blood, tears and the rain of the world.
We hit the ground. But we won’t break.
Rising again to wander the earth.
Because we are Iron Angels.