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Poem
What's man that heaven turned to hell
in Eden's garden? It's a tale,
as old as time before the flood,
before Cain spilled Abel's blood.

Subtler than murder, the neighbor 
grows rich against the miserably poor;
with might, the sword then scorns the right, 
and we're caged away from the light.

If light is hid, where goes compassion?
If mercy's outmoded old-fashion,
then hope withdraws, hides like a hermit,
so love and grace fail to permit;

then love, a flower, becomes a weed;
that kills the grass of our joy; seed
no longer grows or germinates,
except for what we in our hearts create.

With skill and heart, I therefore pen;
and illustrate the world of men,
the promises of love, despair, 
against which only fate compares. 

Thus moved, and so destined, I sing:
as lines flow and rhyme, it's like being 
lucid and clear in the sublime;
and it feels right for me all the time.

A high ignites with every line
that I feel: that's how I define
what it means to be a poet,
to not just pose—but to know it!  

But for the son and solitude,
none interfere or thus intrude;
a prisoner, like an inmate,
I bide time; ponder my karmic fate;

endure my endless isolation,
an outcast in this loveless nation,
and lamb in a deceitful land,
that's brought to slaughter with sly hands.

Though for me gold turns to rust
in this Eden: “In God We Trust,”
and heaven's just another hell,
that mocks my story's bitter tale;

I still find peace and hope. In Rose,
I see the conclusion, the close,
of my painful life as reprieve:
the answer to what I believe.

Therefore, though men and angels hate
me, I shall dwell in love; and create
with rhyme and rhythm its magical
sound with a flow that's tactical:

so that the records may reflect,
while to the Muse I genuflect,
I sing with a view to what's right:
so, I may one day know His light.
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