Plucking Angels Poem by Dead Beat Poet

Your name is written up in the sky,
in giant big red letters.
Written with the feathers of angels,
dipped in your blood for all of us betters.

An angel dies every moment,
plucking itself to death.
They pluck until they no longer fly,
or until they run out of breath.

You die a little with every stroke,
the well will soon run dry.
If it doesn't for each of your breaths,
there are a thousand angels waiting to try.