Forever
Isn’t fiction
Where angels
Make their music

Across
That heaven waiting
Eternal
In our books

When songs
And stories dream
Of tales
Which stand immortal

Upon our heads
As victims
Of a finite world
We grasp

Like heroes
Playing fate
By answers
Poorly guided

Or judgement
Misdirected
So man can lose
His turn

To find how
God is real
If only love
Would fester

Among what sin
Grows softly
Between flowers
Near our hearts –

A garden
Not of fruits
But chance which longs
To question

Can divinity
Be created
As art
Will only fail.

– J. Pigno