Satan tends to the gates of heaven;
reaching out with flaming hands.
His propositions reel me in;
and rob my night sleep
for desperate contemplation.
His fiery limbs full of chilling elegance
push their might ‘tail my wits but end;
and resistance consumes my utmost breath;
despite the hypnotic fascination.
Heavens gates vivid before me;
pebbles easily marking the way.
Cloudly judgment is my last objection.
Perhaps the passage is an evil deception.
I’m second guessing the value of imagery;
whether I’ve truly earned admission.
Nothing so pure would be graced by Satan;
and yet no good comes without labor.
