Slack handed businessmen crawl out of

interdimensional caves. 

They were transported to a galaxy,

far away.

Never truly coming home, heads still wrapped

up in the clouds.

The day that it decided to pour.

The now washout faces carry

disbelief.

As interns and secretaries

just scaled the Sears Tower.

Down in the suburbs,

Satan gathered up the wives

for a three'o'clock tea.

A set made out of

wilting roses,

feathers that mirror the sea.

Gossip about the slanderous heavens,

and holy men that scream.

Gather the courage to giggle,

sipping spoiled tea.

Up the stairs to a shimmering ballroom,

that lacks required grace.

Sits an alabaster angel,

a smirk carved upon his face.

It gropes around the danceflorr,

head lifted to the clouds.

Waiting for a rainfall,

the predicition already got wrong.

It would blame the other statues,

or even gods almighty.

If only the floor was broken,

too bad it was waxed yesterday.