A few shell-shocked terrestrial addicts still shake their heads, glowering
One rich angelic romantic still can’t help but grin triumphantly
When reminded of the story, repeated abundantly, of that unfertilized flowering
On earth the book of life was closed, but he felt it
Stared down the maker, in a streak of stunning solipsism assumed sovereignty
Unearthed himself, pulled his mind out of poverty. You would think it sacrilege, as they tell it
But hell lost him along the way. That’s telling.