We can see those golden walls
that like a skeleton
hold us in as hostage organs.

They're beautiful!
And quite fitting--it's
God's paradise.

We live within these
precious bones.
We live inside.

But the beauty and the bounty
are negative aesthetic.
This Eden is decaying.

The only insinuation we can cling to
is the verve of irony, surrounded by
the marvellous cosmic golden swerve.

The tree of knowledge is dying--
crucified--martyred to feed
the tree of life.

We are centrifugally decaying,
locked in this prison.
Locked in God's prison.

We stare through the bars
of the lapidary gate, animals,
waiting for that slouching

beast to free us. To destroy
that angel, that fiery sword,
locking us in.

Locking us back.
Half-lives and whole deaths
are our only solace

as the walls sap our strength,
as the tree of life
sings its ironic beatitudes.

Soon, all there will be
within the walls is
desert and desolation:

the quiet infinitudes of
righteous destruction.
The wall's never ending swerve,

brilliant, holding in the
overflowing tree,
holding us in

as hostage organs.