A Quote by Emilie Autumn

What if I'm an angel without wings to take me home? — © Emilie Autumn
What if I'm an angel without wings to take me home?
His whole body was completely still, except the wings, which were still fluttering a little, like when someone dies. That's when he finally understood that of all the things the angel had told him, nothing was true. That he wasn't even an angel, just a liar with wings.
An angel once found a demon broken and nearly dead. The angel held out his arm to help the demond. The demond looked at the angel and asked 'Why would you save an evil demond like me?' The angel answered, 'Because without you there is no me.
I am a believer in angels, though not the picture-book kind with wings and harps. Such angelic accoutrements seem as nonsensical to me as devils sporting horns and carrying pitchforks. To me, angel wings are merely symbolic of their role as divine messengers.
Home - that blessed word, which opens to the human heart the most perfect glimpse of Heaven, and helps to carry it thither, as on an angel's wings.
Sometimes you go into Nando's, and you want to tuck into the chicken wings with your fingers, but you know someone is watching you, so you don't. I'm sat there thinking, 'If these chicken wings were at home, they would get demolished!' But I've got to use a knife and fork, and you end up saying: 'Could I get a bag to take these home, please?'
Don't put wings on me; I am no angel.
If Heaven is up, I'm going. I know I'm right in my heart. This world is not my home. This life will soon be gone, and, one day, I'll spread my wings, as an angel, and fly away.
In merest prudence men should teach . . . That science ranks as monstrous things Two pairs of upper limbs; so wings-- E'en Angel's wings!--are fictions.
If I am an angel, paint me with black wings.
When I was a child I thought I saw an angel. It had wings and kinda looked like my sister. I opened the door so some light could come into the room, and it sort of faded away. My mother said it was probably my Guardian Angel.
The thread has snapped. No sound even to mark the breaking let alone the fall. That long anticipated disintegration, when the darkest angel of all, the horror beyond all horrors, sits at last upon my chest, permanently enfolding me in its great covering wings, black as ink, veined in Bees' purple. A creature without a voice. A voice without a name. As immortal as my life. Come here at long last to summon the wind.
The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie, For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.
The birth of a child is the imprisonment of a soul. The soul must work its way out of prison, and, in doing so, provide itself with wings for a future journey. It is for each of us to determine whether our wings shall be those of an angel or a grub!
I grew up without a television, so when I went to L.A., it was sort of, you know, a lot to take in, but it actually suited me more than where I was from, so I sort of had that 'home away from home' feeling, and L.A. is definitely home now.
Home sweet home. No place like home. Take me home, country roads. Home is where the heart is. But my heart is here. So I must be home. Clare sighs, turns her head, and is quiet. Hi, honey. I'm home. I'm home.
Take with you the joy of Easter to the home, and make that home bright with more unselfish love, more hearty service; take it into your work, and do all in the name of the Lord Jesus; take it to your heart, and let that heart rise anew on Easter wings to a higher, a gladder, a fuller life; take it to the dear grave-side and say there the two words Jesus lives! and find in them the secret of calm expectation, the hope of eternal reunion.
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