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Tuesday, April 7, 2009

The Paradise

“The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.”
-John Milton

The nightly fluttering of feathers yonder,
Mornings zealous hallows matters none,
Sifted by times changing, as with autumn leaves,
Seared from the tip to a barren and null plummet
Until the next, to a man standing by the truthful Cocytus,
As oblivious as the others or possible in damnation;
Upon arrival, a miserable death dealer snared:
“What purpose thou hath in infernal loneliness,
Such pure soul worthless of wicked sins or thoughts—
Thou’s nothing more than a simpleton
Why is thou not ascending with wings blindingly lit?”
The man then tightly urged the answer:
“I have pondered exactly yet have known all along;
Upon living my splendid life of great travels and quaint possessions
Yet devout faith was absent to my design; I nearly grew dreary of life
And life alone. Was my deepest desires
Far from the mark of all that is holy?
God teaches this deliberate curse after all,
That the grandeur within life
Is meant as a servitude to Him
But in the name of said merciful being, of the bearer of miracles,
The light from above in the midst of darkness and war,
Why must it be so and I, thus, blasphemous?”
The man lightly sobbed surrounded by despair,
Still on the riverside, watching his cold tears
Descend upon and dowsing the fiery river,
His heart hastened, set for his damnation.

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