Prayer for the wingless

Their notes are made on dirty paper;
Some things don't come in multi-colours.
They send me postcards sometimes,
Writing "wish you were here"
As they throng the air
Around the old Christmas trees, lying in the yard,
Decorated with ripped up lottery tickets.
Sometimes they sing to me
As they bend near the earth to touch their harps.
But when can I earn my gold?
We cannot run, but maybe we can hide;
God speed, Best of Men.

Let me walk on silken, pink pebbles,
In a place where it is always Sunday.