A Poet Dies and is Bored with Heaven

I lounge about, walk about, crocking a hymn of praise or two. Heaven, is heavenly, or is it a fake and fanciful heaven created for fanciful and fake poets? I sit by a sweetly flowing stream' a host of gay vividly colorful flowers speak to me in the high-falutin language of antique songs. It is wonderfully wonderful, yet I am bored, bored with the supranormal and the ethereal nature of nature, bored with the endless beauty of all that I encounter. The loveliest woman I have ever seen visits my moody meditations, she tells me to write and to stop ing, but I just cannot, for I cannot pen the transcendental or sublime, without mentioning the ugly, and the dark history of suffering and there is no dark suffering here, not even a sniffle or a tear. I am bored, not unhappy only bored, and I want to go back to my shatty life and write about my misery and yours. I figure heaven is not a location but a state of mind, and that my heaven in reality is a place where demons and angel's battle for the right to fight on - forever.