She hardly could conceptualise
without the evidence of her eyes,
the touted, much praised, paradise

that haunted all her childhood dreams,
had taken up so many reams,
so many books that burst their seams

with images; an imagined place
the faithful wanted to embrace
before it vanished without trace.

How could it vanish? Some might say,
surely it is here to stay,

so potholed with each vice and sin
you wonder how you can begin
to recognise the door marked In.

So she decided to forget her
wonderings of the Begetter;
further musing might upset her.

Respecting, though, the people who,
through faith, believed it all was true,
whose happiness was like a glue

that bound together broken hearts,
the sum much greater than the parts;
unlike the knave who stole the tarts

she left them basking in their bliss,
feeling it would be remiss
to share with them her deep abyss.
Categorized as Poems

By Arthur Richardson

Very part time poem maker. Retired from paid work.

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