Heaven Turned to Hell, Then Hell Turned to a Heaven

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, who's slaughtered by saints' wicked 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.